


Oh No, They Can't

by let2gotwoapplebee2



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, Cheating, Closeted Character, M/M, Songfic, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:45:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 22,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/let2gotwoapplebee2/pseuds/let2gotwoapplebee2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Dave Strider and you can't get over the kid that comes to your shows almost every Thursday.<br/>With his girlfriend.</p><p>Your name is John Egbert and you've got a bit of a crush on a guy in this band.<br/>Which is kind of a problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The song Dave's band is playing: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eEw1QqxNWAU

Your name is Dave Strider and you are the frontman in a shitty cover band. You’re perched on a bar stool on a dimly lit stage. Smoke wafts around you and everyone else who has the misfortune of being in The Chuckly Pug Bar on a Thursday night. You strum dimly at the guitar tilted across your thighs. The drummer behind you is tapping and tickling the snare and cymbals in the kind of bluesy grooves he loves. Your criminally apathetic bassist plunks senselessly and ad libs some solid, mostly vanilla harmonies to you.

You’re not with them, though. You’re with the kid with the burger and beer two tables back. You’re with his black shock of hair and the frame it traces around his face. You’re with the saucer eyes behind the thick, square glasses. You’re with the guy who’s here just about every Thursday he can manage.

And you have no idea what his name is.

 _“I know I don’t know you… But I want you… So. Bad.”_

You tilt your head a bit and lid your eyes. You want to make eye contact with him, to show him exactly what the fuck you mean, to give him a royal eyefucking as you moan and warble some raunchy lyrics. His eyes, however, are buried in his steak fries. You can’t see for shit in this godforsaken rat pit, but you imagine he’s at least got the decency to blush for your efforts.

He fiddles a bit, then grabs at the hand of the girl he’s always got with him. She’s an uptight looking blonde, and if she’s in this dive, she’s  
got some questionable taste, but if she’s on that guy’s arm, she does something right.

 _“I’m driving fast now… Don’t think I know how… To go… Slow.”_

Some hoots and catcalls break up the bar’s noisy drone. The nice thing about these little ditties is they let you know how many people are paying attention to the band. You lick your lips and take a feathery breath before continuing. Burger Guy makes the mistake of looking back up at you.

You’re almost positive there’s some extra color to his cheeks.

 _“And as you wipe of beads of sweat, slowly you say, ‘I’m not there yet.’”_

 _Not a problem if you were with me_ you think at him, smirking. _I’d put you first and second and however much else you’d want._ So maybe it’s an irrational fixation. So what? You haven’t been this inspired in months. You’re practicing again, writing again, having dreams again because you can’t get this derpy shit out of your head. It’s chill, though. You want him there.

You also want him in your bed, but you’re willing to take it one step at a time.

You scat and mosey your way through the break. You don’t push or try to impress, you just feel the song. It builds, though. The sparks in your chest accelerate and there’s a heat in the pit of your stomach. There’s a big push on the snare behind you and you know it’s time to bring it home. Your throat opens a bit more as you get ready to show off for the dork sitting just outside the shitty stage lights.

 _“I know- I don’t know you, but I want you- So-oh bah-yeah-yeah-ahd!”_

Your head jerks a bit along the runs and your eyes find themselves shut. You’re a breath’s width from the microphone, looking for all the world like you’d rather nothing than to take it to a private room. The Patron Saint of Apathy’s sticking to his basic harmonies, rather than trying to anticipate thirds of whatever notes you pull out of your ass. His low rumble hums tangy with the guitar and it all works out. You mumble through the outro, satisfied with the close of your set.

The drummer reminds the crowd of your name as they clap. You start to put your guitar away, peeking up to see if Burger Boy is clapping with the rest of them. He is, of course, an emphatic doofus. You shoot him a smirk, smoothness belying the giddy nausea stirring from getting him all excited like this. You take your shit to the van outside the bar, everything blurring around you as a post-show high sets in. Holy fucking antelopes in hats, you need a drink.

And would you look at who the fuck has perched his ass at the bar, hailing the bartender as soon as he sees you.

Your name is Dave Strider and you love when a night gets interesting.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now with 100% more John POV

Your name is John Egbert and you’re so totally doing this! You’re buying that guy in the band a drink and you’re going to get to know him and you’ll totally be bros!

And maybe he won’t have noticed that you came with your girlfriend and, in some tipsy confusion, he’ll kiss you and you’ll have to say you’re not a homosexual and you have a girlfriend. But you’ll still have been kissed by him and it’ll be awesome.

Christ, your fantasies suck.

Wow, he’s taking a long time. Or maybe it just seems like a long time because Rose has already left, since she has class early tomorrow. Meanwhile, you aren’t a square and you don’t have Friday classes. Admittedly, this is probably the only way you aren’t a square.

You check the door again and he’s slinking in. That’s really the only verb that comes to mind, since walking-like-a-puma-that’s-super-scary-but-also-gorgeous-but-could-still-maul-and-eat-you-ing isn’t really a verb. Your heart leaps to your throat as you hail the bartender and ask for two of what he usually gets. You admit, you’re surprised when he sets down a pair of radioactive-blue umbrella drinks, but you’re willing to roll with it. You wave the guy in the band down and hope to god he doesn’t turn and run.

“Sup,” he greets, as he sidles up onto the bar stool next to yours.

“Eheh, not much. I’m John. That was a fantastic set!” You grin and extend a hand to shake, as you desperately hope you’re not being creepy or overbearing.

He takes your hand and gives it a solid, business-trained shake. Oh, thank Christ.

“’M’Dave, ‘n thanks.” He slurs through all of his words and it’s more attractive than a guy should be. He takes a swig of the ridiculously luminescent drink. He must’ve overshot by a bit, though, because he chokes and sputters, spitting half his mouthful over the bar. Your shoulders fall and you indulge in a laugh, tense chest finally opening some as you clap him on the back to try and help jettison whatever else might be giving him hell.

“Dave, you’re not supposed to drink the umbrella, too,” you jeer.

“Yeah, shut up,” he scowls, “Let’s go back to how awesome I am.”

“I dunno, man. You lose some serious cool points if you’re taking your liquor like a fourteen year old raiding her mom’s liquor cabinet.”

“Oh, yeah, John? It’s John, right? Well, let’s see how you do. You haven’t touched yours.”

“Yeah, that’s because I asked for two of whatever you usually get. I was expecting beer. This isn’t my usual kind of deal.”

“Huh. And why are you buying the boy in the band drinks, Mr. John Stranger?”

“Because the boy in the band consistently does a good job and I thought he deserved an alcoholic pat on the back.”

“So then why’d you stick around?”

“Because I’d also like to get to know the boy in the band a bit. He seemed pretty cool until he choked on a girly drink.”

“Oh, you are just a massive douchecanoe. You can just leave now. I would be just as happy not to see your beer-swilling, burger-munching beaver grille again.” He spits it all out, full of carefully measured vitriol and venom, but he’s practically facing you and he’s knee’s brushing your thigh. Looks like someone’s just a bit oversensitive.

“Hey, that beaver comment was out of line. I pay money and shit to see you and that’s the thanks I get?”

“Aw, shit, hey man, I didn’t mean that. Went on th-“

“Hah, went on the defensive. Naw, I get it. It’s cool. You get paid to be cool and I called you out. I’d flip my shit if somebody I met after a presentation shat on my research.”

“Woah, shit. You do research? Sounds legit.”

“Yeah, mostly biology shit. It’s neat stuff, but I don’t wanna talk about it after hours, y’know?”

“Absolutely, yeah. Kinda like how I pretend I don’t play dive bars four nights a week, only that’s because I hate playing dive bars…”

You can’t stop your next laugh. You feel like you’re laughing more than is perhaps called for, but he’s funny and pretty good-looking and you don’t quite know when his hand got on your knee, but you’re pretty okay with that too.

He asks where you go to school, you ask how long he’s been playing guitar. He asks if you play any instruments and almost shits his pants when you talk about the piano. You ask if he’s got any original compositions and you almost shit your pants when he says yes. You both chatter on about music writing, drinks ignored at your sides. You’re both leaned in, conspiratorially, touching knees and arms, bothering at sleeves and jacket hems.

He’s talking about matching beats to chord progressions and, good lord, he’s kind of fantastic. Suddenly, you find your lips fastened across his and you’re pretty sure you just cut him off, which is rude, but he’s not acting like he minds. He braces a hand under your arm and asks if you want to duck out back. You kind of forget about telling him you have a girlfriend or that you’re heterosexual.

Come to think of it, this doesn’t seem like how a heterosexual’s night should go, but you’re beginning to think you might be okay with that, too.

As long as Dave’s there, you’re pretty sure you’re going to be okay with it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now we're back to Dave's POV. Watch and be amazed as the Coolkid breaks my heart.

Your name is Dave Strider and you’re pinned against a brick wall with a stranger’s tongue in your mouth.

And you’re damn pleased about it.

Mr. All-American is all hands pulling hair and teeth biting lips and you did NOT expect him to be this rough. The part of you that writes songs wonders how he knew. The part of you that actually gets laid, however, is unconcerned. He makes a decent wrench at your crown and you gasp into his mouth, stealing his air. He makes a sloppy trail along your jaw to your ear and shit of a shitting shit, his tongue is on your ear and what are limbs. You shudder and shake, scrabbling for purchase on his how did they get that broad shoulders.

You shove a knee between his thighs and grind up, roughly. He groans into your ear, breath hot, before flicking his tongue at the stud in your lobe. You grip at his hips and dance your head away from his, latching onto his neck. You feel his head fall back and his breath comes in shaky heaves under your time-trained tongue and teeth. You slide a hand up his cheek, pushing past the overheated skin to card upward through his already wrecked hair. You nuzzle behind his ear and plant a few kisses on the skin between ear and hair.

“Thanks fer buyin me a drink, John,” you purr.

He freezes.

“Shit fuck. D-Dave, I… I- fuck.” His hands are out of your hair and he’s pushing against you. You keep your hand locked in his hair. There’s no way he’s going to run from you just like this.

“What.” It’s not a question. It’s a command.

“I… Shit. I… Well, I have a g-girlfriend. She-she’s the one I came with tonight and I’m not- I’m a heterosexual and I’m usually not into this kind of thing and-“

“What, this guy kind of thing?”

“Well, yeah-”

“So what, am I girly?” That’s not the fucking point at all, but now you just really want to know.

“What? No! That’s why this is weird! You’re… a man. Very much so! And I… That’s not what I’m into-“

“Bull fucking shit, then what was all th-“

“Except for this. Jeeezus, fuck, do you ever let anyone talk? I’m having a fucking crisis here and you want me to tell you you’re pretty? Shit.”

You shut up there. You kind of have to.

“Look, sorry, that was… I dunno. You’re really cool and I started all this shit in the first place and… Fuck. I’d like to text you, since I still think you’re pretty much the coolest dork I’ve ever met, and I’m still gonna keep coming to your shows, but-“

“Hetero, girlfriend. Yeah. Got it.” Your hand is still in his hair, but the thought of looking into his scary-blue eyes kind of makes you want to barf.

“Fuuuuck, I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. Wow, I’m a major douchlord. Feel free to hate me now. I’ll just go.”

Your hand stays in his hair.

“Gimme yer number, shithead.” You look up at him and those big stupid eyes blink. “You’re kind of neat, too, and I don’t have a lot of friends who actually know shit about music. You wanna do this makeout free? I’m game. I miss having smart friends.”

He grins and the smile cracks you open. Platonic never looked so hard. He rummages in your jacket pocket and swipes your phone, zero permission granted. You yank a bit at his hair. The bastard laughs it off as he puts his number in your phone. He sends himself a text, then hands it back to you. He input his name as “Musicbuddy John” and it’s nausea-inducingly precious.

Platonic never looked so hard.

“Okay, I gotta go now, probably. My roommate’s gonna get pissy.” He slips his hand over yours and gently untangles your fingers from his hair. The tenderness stings. He gives your hand a parting squeeze, running his thumb over the knuckles before jogging off, waving over his shoulder.

Your name is Dave Strider and fuck all if you don’t have a schoolyard crush on Musicbuddy John.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy John is happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music refs:  
> Knee Play 5: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BpoWWnR348M  
> Title track of Koyaanisqatsi: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C6Il58Ln4cI

Your name is John Egbert and you pretty much haven’t stopped texting your new bestest bro ever in like, two weeks. He’s just really funny and musical and seems to have this visceral understanding of you. You’re pretty sure one of you could start a conversation with a sentence and, even if all of the replies were strings of gibberish, you’d each know what the other meant.

You keep trying to convince Rose that she needs to meet him, but she doesn’t seem to agree with you. She says she’s happy for you, but does her weird thousand-miles-away-face when you bring Dave up. For a brief moment, you wonder if she’s figured out about your completely random, totally never happening again because you’re a goddamned heterosexual makeout session behind the bar. There’s almost no way for her to know, but you’re also pretty sure that she just knows everything anyone ever has felt guilty about. It’s equal parts fascinating and terrifying.

For the past eight hours, your conversation with Dave has been at least tangentially related to Philip Glass. That crazy bastard prefers Koyaanisqatsi to Einstein on the Beach. You’d expect nothing less from the insufferable hipster, but “Knee Play 5” is basically the most beautiful thing that’s ever hit your ears and a powerful love overcoming shifting time trumps the decay of American life, in terms of subject matter. He insists you need to see the film and you insist he needs to see the opera. You settle for meeting up and chowing on Mexican takeout while watching The Hours on Thursday before his show. You’re pretty sure that absolutely none of your other friends are this cool. You’ve only been able to watch The Hours with one other person, and that was Rose, who was more watching for the portrayal of Virginia Woolf.

You mention this to Dave and it’s nine minutes before he responds. You’ve noticed that that’s kind of a buffer time for him. The usual response time is four minutes, an uncomfortable pause is nine. He waits sixteen before bugging you, and meals and showers always take either 25 or 36 minutes. All at once, the pattern jumps out at you and you have to laugh; first, at him and his fixation on squares, and then at yourself for counting the minutes. You then proceed to distract yourself, because that’s kind of an uncomfortable thought.  
You find yourself on a Tuesday, in front of a keyboard, headphones on and jacked in. Your phone is tossed on the bed, ignored, though you’re pretty sure you warned Strider you’d be away. Everything in your ears is ragtime and campy ditties from the year-before-yesteryear. Your curtains are drawn, the window flung open. Sunshine and the freshest of air flood your room as you grin and plunk on your piano, seemingly silent to the rest of the world.

Goddamn, if you haven’t been the picture of happiness these past weeks.

Even Rose, for all her weirdness on the issue, has admitted that having a friend like Dave has been really good for you. Granted, she used some fancier words that impressed the hell out of you, but you’re pretty sure that was her gist. Whenever she busts out her psychoanalysis shit on you, you usually just barrage her with mostly-factual updates on your research, peppered with healthy doses of bullshit to coax your Prankster’s Gambit back up. You’re then rewarded with a coy smirk or even one of her soft laughs. She’s all gentleness and delicacy, posh and elegant. You love the way she classes up without talking down to you. There’s a lot you love about Rose.

You’re sure she’ll want to meet Dave soon, if only out of curiosity over his psyche or whatever the hell. In the meantime, you’ve got a movie night to get ramped up about and a shit ton of piano samples to lay down and send to your best damn bro.

Damn, this is awesome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to match the chapter compositions up with how their narrators are thinking, like rambling vs. disjointed, focused vs. daydreaming, etc.  
> Functional or distracting?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hardcore bro time, feat. Meryl Streep.  
> This is the longest chapter so far, by a sizable margin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music refs:  
> Russian Easter Overture: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ty8CCHicF40  
> Shenendoah: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZwxFhG8YbHE  
> Feature song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S2Cti12XBw4&ob=av2e

Your name is Dave Strider and you have just finished cleaning your apartment for the first time in fifteen months. Your favorite audience member-turned-casual back alley makeout buddy-turned-absolute best bro is coming over for movie time and a jam session and Jesus Christ, it’s embarrassing how many beer bottles you have lying around.

There’s a knock at the door and you stand, staring at it for a measured sixteen seconds before opening it. In an instant, John is on you, suffocating with hugs. A hand finds itself in your hair and the other one’s doing an under-over act with your shoulders, giving the one it ends at a too-tender squeeze. You, for your part, keep it to the stock-standard squeeze around the ribs, but an ominous voice in your head reminds you just how hard platonic is.

You give him a tour of your shitty apartment, wincing a bit whenever he has to hop or trip over some shitty sword a wayward piece of musical equipment. After nearly smashing one of your guitars, he laughs and clings to your arm, calling you a seeing eye Dave.

This is just cruel.

He yelps an “Oh!” when he gets to your room and sees your computer, whipping a flash drive from out of his pocket. You’re not sure what medium you expected him to lay piano samples on, but you’re glad this is what he went with.

Admittedly, though, you’d have been downright giddy if he’d brought it on a cassette. This gives you an idea and you whip out your little red notebook from your pocket, slapping “cassette” in it before remembering John is making mouth noises.

“… And a lot of it is like ragtime stuff, but I messed around with some not-piano stuff. I was slapping around big chords and I messed around with Russian Easter Overture for shits and giggles, since I had the score lying around from god only know when and then I just listened to some minimalist stuff for a while and tried to emulate some of that stuff, so it’s a really random blend, since you didn’t really say what you wanted, and I-“

“Butt-munching antelopes, Egbert, you have no idea how perfect this all sounds.”

“Eheheh, cool. I mean, did you have anything in mind?”

“I knew you’d come back with gold. Trusted your judgement.”

A grin threatens to split John’s face and you sneak him a smirk before setting up your laptop to watch moody women lead miserable lives to beautiful music. You both start off sitting up on your bed, a stacked pair of full sized mattresses.

About 12 minutes in, Egbert pulls off some ridiculous acrobatic stunt to go from sitting on his ass to laying on his stomach. You spend a judicious four minutes trying to discern how he managed before flopping back and pillowing your head with a hand.

He whispers things to you that you don’t quite catch about ascensions and descensions, note clusters, and motifs. It’s its own kind of music.

You decide that whatever part of you was motivated toward that last thought has clearly not been in communication with your dick long enough to find out that that’s not acceptable.

Halfway through, you feel due shame for not paying attention to Meryl Streep in a movie and turn it off.

“Dave, whaaaaaaaat?”

“We weren’t even watching. Music mode, engage.”

“Eheh, yeah. Sounds good. Do you have a-“

“There’s a keyboard in the next room with a chair, but there isn’t really a stand for it. You’re welcome to set it up on my bed or desk or you can move the xylo off its stand for a bit. Don’t think we’re gonna use that today.”

“Dave, where the hell did you get a xylo?”

“A high school’s music department had a basement sale. I had a marimba, too, but the movers wouldn’t take it when I came up here, so now it’s Bro’s.”

“That’s unreasonably cool.”

“That’s my line of work, sweetheart. Now why don’t you go get yer little pianner and we’ll make some right purdy musics.”

“Bluh. Okay, I take it back. You’re a bigger dork than me.”

“Christ, Princess, how fickle can you be?”

He ends up with the keyboard on your bed. There’s some warming up, a bit of tuning of your guitar. A few simple songs get hacked through for vocal warmups. You find yourself a bit indignant when you realize that Egbert’s comfortable register sits just below yours, but your pride scrabbles back when it’s discerned that your range is decidedly wider.

The pair of you flit around through your catalog of shit, stopping at whatever looks interesting. It’s a two man a capella version of “Oh Shenendoah” as slowly and soulfully as you can manage, and then it’s a goofy acoustification of “Shots” with your shitty drum machine slapping its way to oblivion.

He pokes at it every three songs and finally, after three hours of miscellaneous jamming with you flitting from instrument to instrument, you acquiesce his apparent need to play through music you do at shows. You dig through a binder of favorites before finding one you think suits him. It even has an explicit piano part, easy though it may be.

You pass him the full arrangement, not feeling like dicking around with parts, and settle in behind the drum set. It’s like coming home. You’re a rhythm man, there’s no denying it. You’re a human counting machine, measured and careful—clockwork-like, really. Behind the drums, you’re safe and protected.

You’re ready for this shit.

You tap off for a start, four bars free, before he chimes in. An ad lib floats from you and you think he might have some kind of jazzy hum-thing going.

 _“Sunday morning, rain is falling. Steal some color, share some skin…”_

You vaguely realize he’s handling the bass line too, bless him. A heat comes to your cheeks at the thought that maybe this song is a bit too intimate to be sharing with him, really. The easy grace to his shoulders disagrees with you.

 _“And I would gladly hit the road, pick up and go if I knew… that someday, it would lead me back to you…”_

He’s echoing you, the response to your calls. His invented part fits right in the cracks of yours, never intruding or running over. He just ducks in, then excuses himself.

 _“Come and rest your bones with me. Driving slow on Sunday morning, and I never want to leave.”_

He rides the low harmony, occasionally glancing to check your pace as you tappa-tap-tap-tap the cymbal. The drums largely back out for a verse and the rat gives you the absolute smarmiest of looks. You wish you could give a shit, but you’re imagining your fingers tracing his every outline, painting that picture with your hands.

 _“And back and forth we sway, like branches in a storm. Change of weather, still together when it ends.”_

The chorus rolls up again and you take the high harmony without a word. He’s on melody after two notes, without batting an eye. You let yourself imagine, for just the barest moment, what it might be like to share a stage with someone you’re this close to and have this wordless energy going.

You ride the cymbal as the two of you hum and ad lib through what has to be the jazziest beat break you’ve ever been part of. There’s a darting and swaying through his ribs and shoulders, an almost jauntiness to his wrists.

You’re back on the chorus and he’s back to this call and response thing, but the barest margin louder.

 _“It’s Sunday morning, rain is falling, and I’m calling out to you, saying some day… it’ll bring me back to you.”_

You’re back on your ad lib and he’s taking whatever the hell harmony he feels like. It’s perfect every time. How have you ever made music before this?

 _“Just a flower in your hair, I’m a flower in your hair.”_

 _“All I see… All I need…”_

 _And I never want to leave._

John follows you to the show and you get him in free. He buys you drinks and you buy the food. You discuss rabidly what songs you’re doing when you get back.

He’s in your apartment until the most wee, barest hours of the morning, making more than enough music to anger your neighbors before sending them right back to sleep again. Everything is a silvery, easy flow between the two of you.

After a certain point, he starts facing you while he plays and, while he barely even needs glance at you to read you, he’s impossibly keyed in like this. It’s equal parts fascinating and terrifying.

When John leaves, something goes with him. Some light, some volume, a bit of food, and maybe just a bit of your good mood. Once the door is shut behind him, though, you dash back to your room and tap the record button again to stop the red blinking before setting to work on as much editing as you can manage before passing out stone cold at your desk.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longass delay for a shortass chapter, but this was really hard to get out.   
> Writing it was easy. Watching it happen hurt like hell.

Your name is John Egbert and you’re pretty sure this night could not have set itself up more perfectly! Aside from the looks Rose keeps giving you, like she expects that any aspect of the evening could explode into fake snakes and every doorway has a bucket resting overhead, and the way she only hesitantly grabs your hand as if you snuck a joy buzzer when she wasn’t looking, you’re unbelievably happy.

You take her first to her favorite restaurant. You’re grinning from ear to ear the whole meal. She’s a bit quiet and doesn’t eat much, but it’s kind of what you’ve come to expect from your delicate Rose. Her pale skin seems to glow warmth in the low lights and she looks like the best kind of magic. There’s a far-off look to her eyes as she’s swamped in thought. That’s her way, though- always thinking.

She tries to split the check, but you’ll have none of it, throwing down a decent chunk of your hard-earned savings before tugging her out the door to the next portion of what you hope is a magical evening. She pokes and pries as the two of you climb in the car, trying to figure out the next destination. Her brows furrow when you park in the campus lot nearest the art school.

“John, it’s the weekend. I don’t want to be at school,” she chuckles. It’s a pretty, warm sound like lavender flowers in the sun. You kind of gag a little that you would even think that, but you figure Rose is worth the nauseating language. You take her hand and lead her into the post-post-post-modernist structure.

“You’ll like this, I promise!”

She arches a delicate brow, curiosity nearly trumping her skepticism. Her measured expression breaks to an unabashed smile once you’re through the doors and she sees the banner overhead welcoming her to the film department’s monthly foreign film double feature.

“John, this is too sweet. When did you get thoughtful?”

“Rose, I am wounded! It’s our anniversary and I insist on treating you like a princess for sharing a year of your life with me!” You smile at her and she points a bashful smile your way before looking to the posters to see what’s actually playing. She spends the whole event completely engrossed in the films, a pair of French avant garde noir detective slasher mystery romances, from what you can tell. You manage to valiantly stay awake for the duration, despite the cruel lack of subtitles and, when it ends and Rose asks if you could just drop her off at her dorm, you understand because damn, if it isn’t late and you aren’t tired as hell.

She smiles at you when you pull up to the blocky tower’s walkway and there’s something strange in her eyes. You haven’t noticed it before, but you’re pretty sure it isn’t new. You’re only just recognizing that it’s there. You lean in to kiss her, closing your eyes and begging for her trust. She must have dodged, because you feel a soft press of lips to your cheek. When you open your eyes, she’s opened the door.

She walks into the building without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a deep hurt when you realize someone you trust and admire and truly care for is drifting away.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1200 words, 1100 of which are angry Dave.

Your name is Dave Strider and you’re at wit’s end.

The amount of information John’s willingly given up falls on the more barren side of jack shit, but he’s been alternating clinging to you like you’re the last lifeboat and staring mournfully at the air two feet from his face. You’re beginning to wonder if that bit of air killed his dog. You remember he doesn’t have a dog and then shit gets serious.

The two of you have been staring at the History Channel blankly for upwards of two hours, his head on your shoulder. He’s squeezing the arm he’s leaning against like it’s some scrawny, noodly teddy bear. You find the image grotesque and move on.

“Egbert, you’re weirding me out,” you begin as you shift to face him, “You’ve been moping like fuck all day and you haven’t told me anything. Not cool.”

“Eheheh, you would be the expert in cool, Dave.” His laugh is weak and it makes you want to hurt someone. You grind your teeth a bit before pressing.

“And when I say that, I mean you need to tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s… I dunno. I guess it’s nothing. There’s just been a lot on my mind.” He moves his chin to look you in the face. “Dave, you’re so awesome. I swear to god, you are ALWAYS there for me. You’re fucking fantastic, man, you know that?”

“John, have you been drinking?”

“Heh, no Dave. Kinda wish I have been, but it’s whatever. I mean, nothing’s even really wrong, I guess. Hmm.” He hums and a small smile breaks across his face.

You’re angry and you can’t quite figure out who you’d be angry at.

He taps a forefinger under the bridge of your shades and wiggles them out a bit to push them to the top of your head. You’re not sure it’s okay. The rising burn in your chest is another vote for “No.” You can feel the hard wall in your eyes, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He just goes on staring at you like he’s some beautiful injured creature and you’re nursing him back to health.

He’s this massively warm force leaning against your arm. John Egbert isn’t a person in your life anymore. He’s a force. This unstoppable intrusion of space-sharing and fuck-giving and hope-having has taken over your life, pushing and pushing at you.

You grit your teeth and take in a swell of breath before hazarding the question you know will ruin your night.

“This is about Rose, isn’t it.”

“Heh, I guess, kind of. She’s just been so weird to me. It’s like I’m losing my best friend or something.”

Nope. That’s it.

You can handle no more.

Your name is Dave Strider and you’re officially made of ice.

You neatly and crisply tug your arm and shoulder from him. The loose, trusting grip breaks too easily, like he takes your steadfastness for granted. The fact that he then falls and smacks his chin against the side of your arm confirms it. Your focus snaps back to the History Channel as the wounded boy at your side rubs at his chin.

“Dave, what the hell?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s chill. Chill as shit. Shit that you don’t need to fuckin worry about.”

From the corner of your eye, you can see his brows furrow. He’s confused. The fuck legitimately has no idea what’s just happened. Beautiful. Fucking perfect. He reaches out to just touch your forearm and you tense. He needs to get off you right now. Off your couch right now. Out of your apartment right now.

“Okay, Dave, now you’re the weird one. What the hell?”

“Can you really think of nothing that’s going on here that might upset me?” You turn to face him. “Honestly? Absolutely nothing?”

“Nothing’s coming to mind, no! I haven’t even done anything! What’s your problem?”

Well, that was the wrong-ass question for someone who didn’t want a new asshole torn to ask.

“My problem, Egbert, is you.” You shift on the couch to face him fully and brace an arm against the couch back. “You come in to my life with the sweetest smile and the biggest damned ‘No homo’ I’ve ever gotten in my life and then worm your way into my everyday life. You make me share so much of myself with you. I let you into my music. I fucking trust you. You make yourself the closest person to me, my best fucking friend. And then. AND FUCKING THEN. At the end of the fucking day, I’m just someone who’s more available than your girlfriend. If she wasn’t giving you the silent treatment, or whatever form of passive aggressive punishment she uses, you’d be with her right now. I cuddle your ass on my couch, I share my food with you, I field your depressed-ass texts from eleven at fucking night to when you finally got to bed which, for the record, was half past eight. And she’s your best friend. Are you beginning to see where I might be feeling like the shit scraped off your yellow-ass shoes right now?”

“Dave, that’s- No, I-Dave, you know I-“

“I know you what? I don’t know shit, Egbert. I have no fucking clue what you want from me or what the hell you think I am to you, but-“

In a white-hot instant, your mouth is covered and foreign teeth have dug into your lip when you didn’t stop talking fast enough. Devil smooth lips move against yours, trying to shove your anger back in. His hands clap to your shoulders, your neck, your hair and face. For a moment, you kiss back and it’s forbidden fruit sweet. It’s what you want and it’s what you can’t have and it’s all in the wrong way. You find your head again and it screams to your hands to push.

You blink hard a few times, trying to jog your hard wall up again. Egbert is flopped opposite you, flushed and panting. It’s what you want and it’s what you can’t have and it’s all in the wrong way. He looks scared. And he should. He looks confused. And he should. He looks hurt. And he has no right. You’re hurt. You’re wronged. Fuck him for acting a victim.

“I think you ought to go.”

“But Dave, I-“

You rise to your feet.

“Is said I think you need to get the fuck out of here. And you probably shouldn’t come back for a while. Like when you figure out how not to toy with people’s shit.”

He scrambles off your couch and out the door, slamming it behind him, though you know that’s an accident.

You catch your reflection in the window and you’re a mess. You touch your face and there are tears there. You bite your kiss-bruised lip and feel nausea rising. Some reservoir breaks and you feel a sob hack out.

Your name is Dave Strider and you’re pretty sure you’re the worst kind of person. You’re a friend-killing monster. Specifically, you’re a friend-killing monster who should be drowned in whiskey.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John Egbert sits in a chair and the camera rotates around him while time implicitly passes.

Your name is John Egbert and you’ve survived three Saturdays since the worst weekend of your life. Survived is the word you use because any other verb might be getting a bit ambitious, regarding your coping skills. You spend as many hours a day as you can spare staring at your phone, praying for a text from Dave. You spend just as much time dreading that text, in case he remembers the jacket he loaned you once to get through the rain and wants it back.

You’ve spent more nights than you care to admit wrapped in the soft cotton, face nuzzled into the hood. The scent of him is starting to fade and there’s a pang in your chest when you have to try that extra bit harder to catch it. It’s caught the tears that he doesn’t want to anymore.

Routine with Rose continues without a hiccup, but there’s something lifeless about it. There’s a death in her face and you know she’s faking it, but you can’t quite pin what she’s faking. You don’t try kissing her anymore and she seems relieved. Every so often, she starts something with a hesitant “John…?” but always shakes her head and dismisses it and calls it nothing.

You begin to wonder if she kind of has someone else too.

Then you remember you don’t have someone else anymore.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dave, John, and I all manage to stop crying.

Your name is Dave Strider and you’ve pretty much fallen into the biggest rut of your life. You only leave your apartment for groceries, shows, and your shit job in the sandwich shop underneath your apartment. You barely touch your guitar unless you have to. You haven’t taken photographs in at least a couple weeks. You can only get to sleep gripping Egbert’s stupid blue-ass hoodie so tight between your fingers, you’re afraid it might tear. He left it one day when it got warmer than he bargained for and the goofy tool told you to just keep it, nevermind that it only just barely fit you at all.

You stare at the phone, praying for some sort of apology text, dreading some sort of acknowledgement of just how much of a douchelord you are. Every buzz of your cell has you jumping shamefully to answer it. You set the volume to full and still check the screen every four minutes, just in case it switched to vibrate on accident.

It’s not until you’re crouched, huddled in a ball on the floor of your shower, with a face that’s a bit wetter than the showerhead intended that you decide you desperately need to do something. So that’s what’s brought you to now, hiccupping and toweling your hair off as you prepare to swallow your pride. Damn, pride tastes a lot like nausea.

You manage to tug a pair of boxers on before shuffling into your living room and draping over the couch, phone clutched tight in a white-knuckled hand. There’s a tweak of shame and guilt when you hit the speed dial number that Egbert still occupies on your phone.

He picks up after a single ring.

“Dave! I- uh, that is… Hi…”

“Yeah, uh, hey. So I, uh… Well, I found your hoodie and I was wondering if you’d want it or anything-“

“I, well, I mean, uh-“

“Because you’d have to come over and get it. I don’t deliver shit for anybody-“

 

“Yeah, uh, I can come by and grab it or something. When-?”

“As soon as possible- I mean, it’s just sitting here and shit and, like… Yeah, just whenever works for you…”

“I-I, well I’m not doing shit right now. I can just come snag it.”

“Yeah, that works. Just knock when you’re here or something.”

“Yeah, I’ll be like nine minutes.”

“A-awesome.”

He hangs up and you berate yourself for stumbling over your words. There’s an unbearable lightness in your stomach and you’re absolutely terrified of the blue-eyed derp who’s about to pop up on your doorstep.

You remember vaguely that you’re pretty sure he is supposed to have a class right now and enough fear ebbs that you can haul your ass off the couch and get dressed. You extract his hoodie from the tangled sheets of your unmade bed and try to fold it nicely, setting it on the corner of your dresser. You rest your forehead against it and breath deep. It only barely smells like him anymore, so it stings a bit less to let it go.

You jump when the doorbell rings and you’re at it before you can catch yourself to wait until a decent moment. You remind yourself that one is a square and relax a bit before hauling the door open and seeing everything you’ve missed for almost a month now.

“Sup, come on in,” you greet coolly, doing your best to mask your pure relief.

“Hey. So, uhh, that hoodie?”

“Yeah, hang a sec.” You saunter to your room and you hear his quiet shuffle behind you. You grab it from the dresser and hold it out for him. He hesitantly grabs at the edge before finally hazarding a peek at your face.

“Uh, Dave?”

“Hm?”

“I-it’s really awesome to see you again. I… Even if it’s just to grab a hoodie.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I’ve missed you.” His long fingers grip a bit into the hoodie.

You give the blue cotton a solid tug and John winds up flush against you, the hoodie squished between your rib cages. You indulge in a mental back-pat for how admirably that worked as you sling your arms around the dorkfish in a hug.

“I’ve missed you too, John. I’m really fucking sorry. I… had a lot of shit to process and I processed it wrong. You didn’t deserve that fit.”

“And you don’t deserve how I treat you. I’m amazed you still want anything to do with me, heh.”

“Egbert, I want everything to do with you. I kicked you out and I lost my best friend and that was shitty as fuck. I can handle whatever bullshit you wanna dole out if we can go back to being broskis.”

John gives you this sappy ass grin and you can’t fucking take it. You pull the asshat into a tighter squeeze. He can deal with how bony you’ve gotten.

“Dave, you don’t deserve any of the shit. Any of it. I’m going to treat you right, I swear. I don’t want to lose my best friend again. That was the fucking worst month ever.”

You’re so not crying. Crying is the opposite of what you’re doing.

“Oh,” he adds, “You can, uh, keep my hoodie if you want…”

“How about you take it back for a bit and let it get accustomed to home again before it develops Stockholm Syndrome, then you can bring it back when it’s got a healthy psyche.”

“Eheheh, oh Dave, you’re so considerate of my poor, weary clothing. No wonder it was getting Stockholm Syndrome!”

“That shit was like Beauty and the Beast, only the roles were reversed. Like Belle locked Beast in a hugeass tower and then, when he’s cooperative enough, she takes him to this room full of raw steak and scratching posts and ‘gives’ it to him. That’s basically what’s been going on here.”

“Oh man, Dave, that’s some insidious shit!”

He laughs and it’s the best thing you’ve heard in weeks.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy feels? In my fic?   
> It's more likely than you think.

Your name is John Egbert and you are making breakfast in Dave Strider’s shitty apartment. After your truly triumphant, class-skipping reunion, the two of you agreed you really wanted to hang out some more and then 4 AM hit and the two of you decided you really ought to just stay the night. You know for a fact that you fell asleep on the floor next to the couch, but you woke up in Dave’s bed and, when you came out of the bedroom, you realized that the bastard had slept on the couch.

So, you decided to repay his kindness with breakfast. You’re kind of upset that he can carry you around easily enough that it didn’t wake you up. You kind of like that, though. You’re not sure you’ve ever even had a friend who could give you a run for your money, physically. You’ve always been the undisputed strongest within your group of friends from some gym time and your volunteering with Habitat for Humanity, but you guess Dave must have some kind of sick work-out program, too.

You grease the skillet you finally managed to find and set to frying bacon. You guess the hisses and pops woke Dave. You hear a grumbling and creaking from the couch and the clatter of sunglasses as the bacon strips start to curl. He’s behind you sooner that you thought possible.

You feel broad, sure hands on your arms, just below your shoulders. There’s a heat in your face. He presses his cheek to your temple and you beg desperately for him not to notice your wicked flush.

“Well, aren’t you just the most perfect little wifey, making me breakfast.” He makes a sleep-warm chuckle and sets a less-than-chaste kiss to the side of your neck before shuffling to the bathroom.

You grab a spatula with shaking hands and get the bacon on a plate to cool. You try to swallow your heart out of your throat while you lay new strips in the skillet. You can still feel his heat against your back and you smile. The rumble in his voice echoes in your ears. You let a chuckle fill your throat. As you make a grab for the carton of eggs, you think that you could get used to this.

You almost drop the eggs when ice splits your gut. You don’t want to get used to this. You can’t. There’s Rose. And you’re a guy. Oh, you don’t know why you even pull that bullshit anymore. Dave gets your blood pumping. He electrifies your air. He turns your stomach and your life upside down. You can no longer pretend your ass is a Kinsey Zero.

And you’re getting more okay with that.

But fuck, there’s still Rose. You need to talk to her. You have to figure something out.

But back to this Kinsey thing. This is new. Guys. Penis. Yeah, you guess the whole deal is seeming a bit enticing, particularly with Dave, but damn. Weird.

The quietest of footsteps pull you out of your head. Dave’s leaning against one of the chairs around his tiny breakfast table, staring you down with the warmest smirk he can manage.

“Dave,” you blurt, “I think I’m bisexual!”

The asshole laughs.

“Really? Asks the guy you’ve kissed within an inch of his life.” Oh yeah. That. He moves to you and ruffles your hair, slinging a loose-armed hug around you. “Don’t worry, Eggs. I’ll always accept you for who you are, regardless of how much you like lady bits.” He laughs and you make it your goal to make him do that as much as possible.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More happy? Aw, man, we're on a roll, yo!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear god, it is so hard to come up with shit that doesn't already exist. I try to keep my brands real and my places fake. So no, you will never find a Booze Barrel Emporium unless I am permitted to open up a chain of liquor stores.
> 
> Also, pretty sure this is the longest chapter so far.

Your name is Dave Strider and HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT.

_Mr. Strider:  
My name is Sherman Beechwood and I’m emailing you on behalf of Hand Over Hand Records. We were forwarded a copy of your recent recordings by one of our larger associates and find them to show a great deal of promise. In particular, we preferred the piano-backed tracks to the live recordings. We would be very excited to have you come in and record some of your original material with us, on the condition that you are accompanied either by yourself or whomever played piano for your recordings._

_We would like to discuss a contract for the production of one original album. My contact information is listed at the bottom of the page. We look forward to hearing back from you, Mr. Strider._

Holy shit holy shit holy shit. 

You gawp at your computer screen for an unmeasured amount of minutes. You only quit when your mouth dries out. You struggle to process the information on the screen. Record deal? One record with a tiny studio and you probably won’t be able to sell that many at all, but still. STILL. You go back to the last mass email you sent to every recording company you could get the address of. There’s dozens of them. Yeah, you got bumped to whatever dinky local subsidiary. So fucking what? 

You totally do not take this moment to do a screaming victory lap around the apartment. That is a thing that is simply not done. You do, however, run your ass down to Booze Barrel Emporium and grab a bottle of champagne and a 6-pack of fancy beer. God damn, do you love emporiums.

“John,” you half scream at your cell phone, upon your return to your apartment, “John, I need you to come over. I have important fucking shit to tell you. And I’m not going to tell it to you in a voicemail because I have way too much alcohol here to do that. I’m having a couple friends over tonight and I’m ordering a goddamned Chinese buffet. This is major shit and I need you here. You are my best bro.”

You scroll through your contacts list, compiling recipients of the not-so-mass text invite to your motherfucking record deal party. The band’s drummer, your pseudo-roadie, the classy-as-fuck bartender, your production buddy, your sound equipment tech, and your most recent ex-roommate make the list, with a +1 and a BYOB attached. You consider, for a moment, inviting the criminally apathetic bassist, but if your super awesome roadie comes, he’s totally bringing his best gal-pal and he always gets up in her grill after half a drink. Besides, if your production buddy makes it, the two of them invariably wind up either fighting or fucking and, with enough booze, they don’t give a shit who sees. 

Rapid fire buzzing signals that all your asshole friends timed their texts to get to you in four minutes. You get four affirmatives, one maybe, and a “FUCK YOU” with three extra guests tagging along in total. A quick text to your bro back in Texas and your best goddamned bud-lady from high school in some godforsaken, sweaty corner of the earth is fired off before your phone buzzes again.

=Incoming call from Musicbuddy John<3=

“Oh my god, Dave,” he begins as soon as you pick up, “I was in class! What do you want?”

“You’re shitting me. Did you not even listen to the message I left?”

“You left a-Oh, now I’ve got it!”

And he hangs up. There’s about a minute before he calls back.

“Dave, is this crazy new booze party happening in lieu of a show tonight?”

“Buh?” is your articulate reply.

“It’s Thursday. You’re intending on getting piss-nasty on a Thursday?”

“Yeah, show’s cancelled. This is better, I SWEAR.”

“And are people actually coming? You know, not everyone’s weekend starts before Friday.”

“Yes. Everyone I invited is coming, so stop being a shitbutt and get over here!”

“When does it start?”

“When I walk in. Fuck, why so many questions? Just be here, like, five minutes ago!”

“Not four?”

“You’re an ass. Why are we friends?”

“Because I’m going to buy you expensive alcohol and help you pay for food, since this is apparently a big fucking deal.”

“John Egbert, you are a saint. However, you’re still the Patron Saint of Shitbutts until you get here.”

He just laughs at you, but shows up on your doorstep with flavored liqueurs aplenty, which should more than please the classy bartender. You wonder about her a little. She’s sweet as can be when you’re a bucket of sass and is just drop dead gorgeous, but she never brings along a +1 to any of your parties. You guess she’s discerning, but you wonder what kind of company she keeps that isn’t ridiculously cool boys in bands.

“So, Daaaaaaaave, what’s going on?”

“It’s- I- You gotta see the email.” You haul him to your computer and pull up your web browser. The email is still open. Of course it is, you’ve been rereading it as much as you have time for. You shove John into your computer chair and perch over his shoulder, staring his face down for a reaction. His eyes go saucer-wide. When he reads about the “piano accompanist” he starts up this sort of Pee Wee Herman scream of disbelief. He wheels to you, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you.

“AAGHHHH DAAAVE AAAAGH” is about all he can manage to get out. 

“AAGH FUCK I KNOW AAAAAGH JOOOHN AAAAGH” is your reply.

You do your best to quell the screaming as you clean up a bit and rearrange furniture to a more party-friendly set-up. John shoves the couch around and you fake-swoon as your real-ogle his arms. You’ve only barely finished getting shouted at by an angry Chinese food delivery man when the doorbell rings 15 minutes early. You know who it is.

“Chaka Kanaya!” you bellow as you open the door. A rich, earthy laugh greets you and she wraps willowy arms around you. 

“David, it’s good to see you without the ever-obscuring veil of smoke. You seem to be in the best of moods. So, why are you gathering us all here?”

“Oh god, that’s the best part! It’s like a reverse surprise party!” John yelps from the kitchen counter. You grin in his direction and toss out introductions. 

The classiest lady you know has an odd look on her face as she regards John, but you shrug it off as how-do-I-know-you partial familiarity. You show her the spread so far and she grins, adding a bottle of peach wine. 

“Oh, this is going to be fantastic, David.”

“So you don’t mind mixing tonight? I don’t wanna make you work on an off-day-“

“David, I got into bartending because drink mixing is quite enjoyable and I have the sort of figure that gets me tips. Don’t you fret over me “working” on an off day.”

“Oh god, you are the fucking best. Love you Chaka Kanaya. Mean it.”

“I have to say, David, have I ever mentioned how flattered I am at the continual comparisons to a famous diva? Because I really am.”

You make small talk with her while John puts some kind of crazy-ass dip together. Every so often, she casts him slightly concerned sideways glances before leaning to you and speaking in a whisper.

“David, may I ask how you know John?”

“He goes to shows all the damn time. He’s like my best fan or some shit, so we started hanging out and he’s really rad and stuff. Why?”

“It’s just… I think he’s dating a… well, a friend of mine, and I-“ The doorbell rings. You shoot her an apologetic look and she shakes her head. “It’s nothing. Just… small world.”

For the next twenty minutes, you’re up and down answering the door, greeting people, and playing the excellent host while John dishes out appetizers and Kanaya makes sure there isn’t a single thirsty throat in the house. Most people poke and prod, trying to wrench the reason they’re here out of your frosty-cool jaw except for your old roommate who just yells at you some and makes a pass or two at John and your roadie’s gal pal. You remain tight-lipped as ever, claiming only the magic salve of crab Rangoon can ease the secret from you.

Of course, when you finish saying that for the third time, John scurries in the door, weighed down with sacks of Chinese delivery. Everyone settles on the couch or in chairs, mostly. Somehow, your ex-roomie and said gal-pal are on the floor, chittering away. You perch atop the breakfast table and the room falls to a hush.

“Alright, guys. You wanna know why I bought so much damn booze? Okay, here it is: I-“ you suck in a deep breath and everyone groans, “gotarecorddealandI’mgonnamakeanalbumholyshit!” you rush out all at once. Your crazy-ass drummer leaps at you, screaming and bouncing around. Once everyone else’s brains have caught up with your words, the reaction is much the same. 

Kanaya gives you a squeeze and insists you be the one to pour the champagne. You grin, face flushed, as your old roommate gives you a playful shove and grunts, “You WOULD call us all over here to brag, wouldn’t you, you miserable asshole.” He’s all smiles, though, and helps you pass out the bubbly in whatever liquid-holding vessels you can find. You raise the bottle, having run out by the time your guests are served. They raise their glasses, though John raises an old cereal bowl, as you shout, “To getting noticed!” and Karkat shouts, “To finally getting the rent money you owe me!”

You’re pretty sure the rest of the night is fantastic. However, you can’t remember much past that toast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dave's record deal here is a lot like getting published in a regional literary magazine. Not many people besides your friends will come in contact with it and you're not going to make much out of it, but GODDAMMIT YOU'RE PUBLISHED.
> 
> Also, headcanon: Kanaya ALWAYS calls Dave "David" and Dave thinks he is the coolest person ever to have come up with "Chaka Kanaya."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds himself hella inspired. We watch the results.  
> Is anyone still following this? Bless your hearts if you are, through my irregular-ass updates.

Your name is John Egbert and you have never been so inspired. Granted, the inspiration didn’t hit until after the hangover went away. And the hangover didn’t go away until you stopped being drunk. And you hadn’t stopped being drunk when you woke up in a heap of pillows at the foot of Dave’s bed. Actually, you were pretty inspired then, too, but review of your recordings proved that you can’t compose for shit when you’re tipsy. Your head buzzes mercilessly with melodies.

Dave’s friends untangled and left in ones and twos that morning. You both dish out hugs because, wow, you made so many friends! The pretty bartender, Kanaya, gives you a sort of odd look, but there’s nothing mean in it. She gives you a sort of motherly, crooked smile and plants a peck on your forehead when she leaves. You look to Dave for meaning, but he’s bidding hungover farewells to other guests.

You hunker down over his keyboard for what you later found out was hours. You stop for food for a short time, mind still humming songs not yet heard. You’re pretty sure you ask Dave to print some transcription paper for you, because there’s a stack of it by the keyboard when you attack it again. After a while, the headphones start to shove the legs of your glasses into the side of your head and you tear them off, letting your music fill the room. The door opens and maybe it closes. You’re too busy being swallowed whole by pounding chords and tumbling arpeggios. The paper you’ve now surrounded yourself with is covered in dotted scribbles and scrawls. 

“John?” Dave’s voice tugs you violently from your musical reverie.

“Uh, yeah?” You are now acutely aware of how little you’ve actually said to Dave all day. A guilty flush stings your cheeks. You blink a bit and take him in. His lean frame is tilted as he perches on a chair back. There’s a calm half-smile on his face and a tray on his palm.

“Brought you some dinner.” You feel your eyes widen and your mouth fall open a bit as your hunger dawns on you. A peek at the window tells you it’s dark out already. The clock says it’s ten. So much for Friday.

“Dave, you are seriously the best person ever. Like, no contest.” You bolt up and snake a hug around him, careful not to upend the tray. His free arm wraps around you, fingers curling into the fabric at your side. You feel his cheek press to your temple and his breath ghosts just so lightly over your ear.

“You are seriously amazing to watch work, you know that? I haven’t seen someone that committed to something in a longass time. It’s cool.”

“What have you even been doing all day?” He laughs and it’s right in your ear. The closeness of the sound shocks you a bit, but the ease in the way his chest moves is kind of amazing.

“Oh man, you’ve legit been that zoned… I cleaned up for a bit, then I came and chilled in here and listened for a while. Also got some made pokemans on. Beat the Elite Four like a million times.”

You laugh and the whole of it racks your body. You hear one, two, three scrapes of wood against wood. Then, for just an instant, you’re weightless. That ends when your knees slam the ground, then your elbows. Dave yelps and you imagine he came down on his tailbone pretty hard. There’s a rain of pizza rolls and chicken nuggets on your head. A plastic bottle of Sprite bounces away and you make a note not to touch that shit for, like, a half hour. 

Your hands are splayed across Dave’s back, pressed to the flats around his shoulder blades. His chest is as close to you as you can manage as the two of you, shaken, gasp for breath. Your elbows and knees are screaming that you’re an idiot, but you’re pretty sure you just saved Dave from a concussion, so your hinge joints can just fucking deal with it.

After a few moments, you’ve calmed and you pry yourself from Dave. He reaches up to resettle his shades and frowns at the various microwavables strewn about. You shrug and gather them up, putting them back on the tray. He exhales slowly through his nose, then helps you. 

“Damn. Sorry. I guess that’s what happens when I do nice shit.”

“Oh god, no, Dave, it’s fine. It’s awesome. You’re awesome. I’m the one who should be sorry. I totally knocked us off the chair with my stupid laughing. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, mostly. And don’t you worry about your laugh. It’s cute.”

“Shush. No. It’s dorky. But are you sure you’re gonna be okay? We came down kinda hard.”

“Now that you mention it, my ass is starting to hurt like fuck. No big deal, I’ll just go sit on a big-ass ice cube or some shit. I’ll just have to deal with walking funny for a few days.”

You press your lips together, trying to stifle the incoming snorts. You think your eyes bug a little. They’re definitely at least watering.

“Oh fuck. No. Oh fuck. That sounded awful. Shut up, John. Shut up or I’ll eat all the floor nuggets on my own. I swear to fuck I will tear your adorable little buck teeth out.”

The laughter bursts out of you. There’s no containing it as a dark blush stains Dave’s face, spreading to his ears and neck. His awkward babbling grows frantic as it runs unchecked. You kind of wonder what’s up with the burst of affectionate language, but you kind of dig it. You dig it and this new, flustered Dave. You shush him and press a pizza roll to his lips. He makes an indignant noise, but bites it from your hand.

“This is gross,” he grumbles.

“I’ve seen your fridge. You eat worse regularly.”

“So, what are you cranking out in here?”

You would later feel bad for rambling and barely letting Dave talk after that question. However, that wasn’t until much, much later. You figure your muse should know what he inspired.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, much better. Back to parallel structures and feelings and writing that I actually like again.
> 
> Dave makes an important discovery.

Your name is Dave Strider and you made an important discovery this morning. 

You saw John buzz around your apartment as you lazed about and willed your hangover away. You saw this manic shine to his eyes, like he was full of thousands of the best ideas ever. You know that looks. More than once, when you’ve been home alone, he’s put that look on your face.

You saw John shut himself up in your room without a word and you shared a private laugh with yourself. You picked up the various booze containers from the night before and the boxes of Chinese takeout and every so often, you could hear his fingers slamming the plastic keys from behind the closed door. Sometimes, you heard a hesitant hum, stumbling over itself as he strained to find the note in his head.

You saw John stumble out from your room, zombie-like and numb. He hunched over his sandwich, completely absorbed in a faraway music box. You yanked a stack of composition paper out of your notebook, doing your best to keep to the perforated edges. He made some sort of noise that may have been “thanks” but could just have easily been him trying to somehow hum a chord.

You saw John in a frenzy, full of passion and ideas when you finally dared open your own bedroom door. He’d since abandoned his headphones and his music rang through the apartment. Every right note, every perfect phrase widened his near-euphoric grin as his ideas began to play out perfectly in front of him. You lay on your own bed, a visitor in his world, just listening to him playing his thoughts. You also beat the Elite Four, like, a million times.

You saw John Egbert peek at you and blush as you did your best butler imitation and brought him dinner at ten o’ clock when he showed no signs of getting it himself. More importantly, though, you felt him against you. You soaked up his rich laugh with aching ears. Your heart stung as you fell and the dork squeezed you tight, trying for all the world to keep you from falling. However, against the better judgment of the part of you that gets laid, you’ve already fallen, and it hurts more than your bruised tailbone. 

As he presses a stupid pizza roll from the floor to your lips, with eyes full of concerned sky, you see something else. You see something that twists at the wound in your gut you’d figured had healed. You see passion and compassion, an inspired muse, innocence you’d like to ravage.

Your name is Dave Strider and this isn’t a schoolyard crush anymore. You fucking love John Egbert.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember when I let characters be happy for extended stretches of time?
> 
> Me neither.

Your name is John Egbert and you’ve finally run out of steam, babbling to Dave. Instead, you’re now having a floor picnic, which is a perfectly acceptable thing for two grown men to do on a Friday night. He managed to crawl and find the Sprite bottle under his bed, but the two of you have yet to open it, instead staring at it warily. 

Since you fed him the first pizza roll, it’s been a sort of unspoken rule of conduct. You were pretty sure that chicken nuggets were never sexy before, so you’re really not sure how this happened. You decide to test the waters a bit. You gently press one of the pizza rolls to his lips, putting just the gentlest downward pressure. There’s a yield to his lips and they part slightly. You feel it more than you see it, but you know his eyes are locked onto yours. As he sneaks his tongue out to take the roll from your fingers, something in you screams that this is absolutely ridiculous, but you wouldn’t ever dare blink. He chews it, swallows, then makes a quick swipe of his tongue over his teeth. You swear to Christ, that is not a thing that should make your pulse quicken the way it does.

He holds your gaze as he reaches for another roll. He raises it to your mouth and, perhaps a bit overeager, you crane for it and just catch his fingertip with your teeth. As you chew the roll, he leaves his finger just ghosting the edge of your lower lip. You swallow and suddenly, there’s no distance between the two of you. You aren’t sure how he managed it, but he’s kept his fingertip to your lip, weightless, as he shifted himself to have just bare inches between your noses. 

Heart pounding in your ears, you part your lips and place the most cautious lick in a small circle around his finger’s very end. His finger pushes forward a small margin and tugs your jaw down. You blink, confused, but he closes the final inches between you, sliding his tongue across the back side of your top teeth. A shuddering gasp stumbles out of you. Your hand flies reflexively to the back of his head, covering your open mouth with his. As his tongue maps your mouth with quick flicks and slow caresses, you tangle your fingers in the perfect blonde hair and rub your thumb against the heated skin behind his ear. A broad, strong hand slides from your collarbone up your neck and a calloused thumb presses its way, slow and smooth, downward along your windpipe. He rests his thumb in hollow of your collar bone and breaks from you, gasping and panting.

“Jesus fuck, have I ever told you you’re gorgeous?” He pulls himself to straddle your lap and your hands meet his hips halfway to pull him there. He grinds down against you as he plants burning kisses where his thumb had been. You pull hard at his hair, wrenching his mouth from your neck with a loud moan. You nip and kiss against his now-upturned jawbone. You trace the strong angle from just west of his mouth to his ear with your tongue, circling the stud in his lobe. An unruly whimper jumps from his throat when you circle the shell of his ear, dipping just slightly behind his tragus. “Gah-ahh FUCK John…” he hisses at you. He puts the hand not at your collar to your wrist and digs his nails in. Bright-red pain jumps up your arm and he yanks your hand from his hair and smashes his mouth back to yours. His hips roll against you as your teeth fight for each other’s lips.

He drops your wrist and plants his palm against the flat of your stomach. He digs those blunt nails into your shirt and you can feel their bite through the fabric. You feel a groan work out of you from somewhere deep and you reward him with a tender suck to his bruising lip. The hand darts under your shirt and it skitters and slides across all the skin it can reach. A sort of unseemly squeak announces itself when his rough thumb slides across one of your nipples. He slides his lips from your crushing kiss to your ear.

“Oh, is that good?” he whispers and it’s the cruelest sound until he gives the same nipple a pinch and a tweak. Your breathing hiccups and there’s a whine behind it. “Hm, I guess it was. Wonder how loud I can get you. Wanna find out, John?” Oh Christ. Oh god. This is not a thing you can handle. 

Suddenly, his hands are gone from your chest and shirt and they are framing your face. “Watch close, now,” he breathes. He takes a hand from your cheek to tug off his sunglasses. His eyes are locked on yours, not daring to break away as he folds the glasses and slides them away behind him. You choke on air as violent-red eyes bore holes through yours. His fingers lace behind your head and you abruptly find yourself lurching backwards under his weight. He’s cushioned your landing, but you’re no less pinned under his admittedly lighter weight.

You dig your hands under his shirt, savoring the pale, freckle-splashed skin. You want to taste it, take it, scratch it red-raw, protect it from everyone else. Dave hums at your surprisingly gentle touch. He tucks his nose between his palm and your ear and, with just the barest breath, whispers the sweetest filth into your ear. You desperately massage the back of his neck and buck your hips up against him, begging for more of something, but you’re not sure what it is.

“You know, I love that you like it rough, John. It puts me on the edge when you pull my hair. Do you like this, being pinned under me? Or would you rather be on top? I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here for a short bit, but if you’re good, I’ll let you take over and you can do what you want.” He licks his lips and the sound sends a shudder through you. Then, he adds, “I’m told these lips feel damn good around a dick.” 

You gasp and your eyes fly wide open. He smirks and nibbles at your neck. You scrape your nails up the back of his neck, up into his scalp. He groans into the kisses he slips down your collar. He pulls his hands from behind your head and pushes your shirt up, just grazing your overheating skin with his fingertips. You tangle a fist in the hem of his shirt and yank it up, pulling him down by the same ball of fabric. A sigh rushes out of both of you at the sensation of skin on skin.

“Oh my fuck, John, I don’t think you have any idea how bad I want you, how bad I’ve been wanting you-“

“Oh my god, shut up, I do. It’s so hard not to just kiss you every time I see you. Shit, you’re so amazing.” 

He shuts you up with another burning kiss, slower than before. His tongue makes careful passes along your own, like he’s trying to taste the words you just said. You tilt your mouth open just a bit more, letting as much of him in as either of you can manage. You smooth his hair, stroke his cheek and neck, grip at his shoulders while you keep him pulled to you by his shirt.

A grating buzz fills the air and he freezes. The wind rushes from you and there’s ice in your stomach. A tinny waltz fills the room and you can already feel yourself gulping back tears. He feels you shift under him and, in an instant, you’re shivering from the sudden lack of warmth. 

“Guess you’d better answer her,” he bites as he sits back on his heels and gropes for his shades. He tugs at his shirt, begging it to lay flat again.

“Dave, I wasn’t going to-“

“Going to what, answer your un-girlfriend? Because you don’t even have a relationship anymore, do you realize that?”

“Dave, what-“

“You two hardly talk at all anymore, you always look like it hurts to be in the same room as each other- Yes, I’ve noticed. You touch me more than you touch her and that isn’t even counting what- the- that!” His voice raises and he sputters over his last words. 

“Dave, you don’t even understand what in the hell is going on! Have you ever been through something like this?”

“I haven’t ever fucking cheated, no!” he spits, “but at this point, it’s kind of fucking hard to tell who’s being cheated on. You know what? I can’t even be this fucking mad at you! I know what’s going on and I’m not doing shit to stop you. Fuck, I deserve this!”

“Dave, what are you even saying? Would you just let me talk for a second?”

“What would that change? I’d love to know. You see this? This me-being-worked-up shit? This doesn’t happen! You’ve got me wound crazy-tight because I don’t even know what to do with you. What in the hell could you possibly tell me to make this okay?”

“Now what the fuck do you mean, what to do with me, like I’m not capable of making my own damn decisions? I may not be making the best choices, but I’m at least an autonomous fucking adult, not some toy that you accidentally stole from the toy store!”

“Of course you’re not a fucking toy! You don’t fall in love with toys, you paint-chewing shit-flipper-“ There’s a hesitant choke in his voice and his hands fly to his mouth. A weight in your stomach glues you to the floor. 

“I need to go,” you gasp. You yank up your phone and grab your coat as you dart out the door. You aren’t sure when they started, but there are tears on your face. The image of Dave, on his knees, bare-eyed and humiliated is burned to your retinas and it makes you utterly disgusted with yourself. You break into a run, hoping the chilling air that burns in your lungs might somehow clean you out. It’s just as well that you run to the café anyway.

Your name is John Egbert and you’re about fifteen minutes late to what Rose is calling a meeting for “ _closure_.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More places that don't exist!

Your name is Dave Strider and it’s the morning of the third day since you ruined your own life. As you stare at the overnight back John Egbert left behind, you’re pretty sure you’ve finally broken. You scratch at the trail of coarse hair on your lower stomach and fidget with the waistband of your sweatpants as you turn over a stupid idea in your head. Seeing John so inspired, being inspired, it makes you want to go back. You stare at the university hoodie peeking up at you from his royal blue duffel bag. You quickly glance around to check for people you know aren’t there, then tug the hoodie from the bag. 

You hold it, pulled taut, at arm’s length. The familiar logo beams at you in varsity font. It looks different from the ones for the conservatory students. You wonder if it’s a College of Arts and Sciences thing, or if he actually bought this from the campus-proper bookstore. You take it to your room and compare it to the one in your closet. Yours is a charcoal color with The Conservatory at Allensville in cream letters down the side. A shrunken version of the varsity-lettered logo on John’s hoodie is wrapped around the right hip of your own, with a tiny scrawl of “Hosted By” hovering above it. 

You’re pretty sure John’s in the class below you, so he never would have seen you around, even if you had attended the same part of the school. You indulge, for a moment, in what it would have been like to meet him for lunch when your schedules made room and to indulge in a leisurely walk through the bricked and fountained quad. Something in your gut steels. It may be too late for lunches with John, but maybe it’s not too late for that quad. You look around your room, in case some masterful ninja had managed to sneak in. Seeing none, you tug on his hoodie for courage and settle at your desk, opening up the online application for Returning Students to The Conservatory at Allensville. 

You swallow hard and your hands shake. You’re utterly terrified, but you can’t seem to stop. What if you’ve lost whatever spark they saw? Is your portfolio outdated? Shit. It is. You fill out the application base and dig through your files, listening for almost three hours to settle on the best. You breathe quickly in through your nose and slowly out your mouth as you combat waves of nausea. The submit button is horrifying, but a great wind rushes out of you when you finally hit it.

You lean back in your chair, relieved. This time, you’ve got your shit sorted out. Bro’s doing fine and your capital is back to respectable. Hell, maybe you can finish this time. Anxiety turns your stomach as you imagine the quad again, though. You see Egbert’s face and his amazing blue eyes and they just can’t meet yours and it makes you want to vom bomb all over your damned room. You tuck your fingers in the soft green cotton, though, and it soothes you. 

You tug the hood over your head, bury your nose in the cleft where the hood splits, and stare at the computer screen, waiting for a reply. The phone on your desk still hasn’t buzzed since Thursday.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, Rose is back.

Your name is John Egbert and you are glued awkwardly to a wooden chair at eleven o’ clock at night. Across the table sits Rose, sipping her chai tea latte and looking as graceful and at-ease as always. You honestly have no fucking clue how she does it.

“So, John, I think we’re both aware that what we have here is rather an-“

“Unrelationship,” you cut in, Dave’s words still stinging your ears.

“Well, yes. I’m not going to pretend I haven’t noticed your developing feelings for David, but I’m in no position to accuse, I-“

“Dave,” you murmur.

“What was that?”

“I… It’s just weird to hear him called David. And yeah, you’re right. Keep going, sorry. No position to accuse?”

“Um, well, yes. You see, I… John, please try not to be upset or shocked, as this has absolutely nothing to do with you, but… I’m afraid I’ve fallen for someone else-“

“Yeah, I’d kind of figured. There had to be something wrong if you we’re only just having the “where the hell were you in our relationship?” conversation now.”

“Oh. I was afraid that I’d been transparent. Fear confirmed. Anyway, like I said, this is nothing against you and has nothing to do with you, but… my new significant other is a woman.”

You raise your eyebrows, mildly surprised, though far from shock, indeed. A Psychology/Art History major in a homosexual relationship? As groundbreaking as florals in Spring. You grimace at the flood of Dave-centric memories from your ironic fashion movie night.

“Her name is Kanaya, and-“

“Kanaya? Ohhhhh! Oh my gosh, Kanaya is a saint!”

Rose blinks and settles her latte on the table.

“You know Kanaya?”

“Well, sort of. I met her yesterday, actually. She kept giving me these really off looks and… Well, I guess I know why now?”

“Oh, John, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for-“

“Rose, it’s really not a huge deal. I cheated first. I met your girlfriend. She’s awesome. I’m happy for you. Try not to get too drunk, dating a bartender.”

She makes a sort of shy smile and you pretend not to notice the floor dropping from under you. Well, there goes your safety net. 

“She’s really quite talented. I’ve had to test drive more than a few concoctions, but she always seems to have my limits in mind. So thoughtful…”

“Rose, I… I know we’ve kind of grown apart lately, but I’d like to think that it’s because we sort of started our own relationships and just felt really guilty and all that shit. Is there way we can go back to being friends? I honestly can’t imagine a Roseless life!”

“John, of course. I might… be a little distant for a bit as I adjust, but I can assure you, I’ll be crawling back prostrate in two weeks or less, begging for your undying optimism.”

You try really hard not to flinch as your mind’s eye stares at the coffin you buried your optimism in when you ran out of Dave’s apartment.

“So, um… How are things with you and Davi- Dave?”

“They’re, well… Good. Great, even. Yeah, heh. He’s just… wow.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re happy, John. I’m glad you’ve found someone who can do that for you. I should probably go now, but-“

“Hey, tell Kanaya that I say hi… And that I’m not mad at her. I think she was afraid I would hate her or something, heheh.”

“Ah, yes. She is quite the worrywart. She doesn’t know like you or I that you are nigh incapable of hate.”

“Heh, basically. Have fun!”

And then you’re alone in the dim café. You stare at her back as she leaves, turning to wave at the door. You watch her leave out the window, waiting until she’s out of sight, before you pull off the chair and zip your coat. You do your best to keep yourself at a walk as you leave the café, but just can’t hold yourself back any longer and break into a run once you’re out the door. You have to get home, play video games, watch a movie, do something to get your mind off of your best friend who loves you, sitting in his apartment, broken by your hands.

Saturday is hard. You read creepypasta until you want to puke and are seeing Slenderman in every corner because it’s better than smelling Dave on all your shirts.

Sunday is almost impossible. Slenderman has turned to ghosts of Dave leaning against your couch, peering over your shoulder, sitting on your coffee table. You reach for your phone so many times, but every time you get too close, you see Dave’s shocked and hurt eyes, red and burning you, and you can’t call him. You can’t ask him to come back to you for you to wind him up and confuse him and make him miserable like you do. You can’t invite him open for you to hurt him again.

Monday is better. You have class, see other people, sit with friends at lunch. It gets easier to imagine a life not built around Dave, which lets him have a life without the ball of suck that is you. You finally admit to being single to any social networking site that asks, and that kind of burns a bit. It’s for the better, though. There’s a flurry of “omg wat happened”s, but you really can’t handle those. You let them sit. They can ask someone else.

Tuesday and Wednesday are almost okay. You can see a blonde guy in a crowd without your heart leaping through your throat. You can hear music and not look for something to go die on. 

Thursday is awful. Thursday is Sunday Tier. You watch the clock count down to the time Dave’s show starts. You want to go and watch him, but you don’t want to make him be near wrecking ball you. You try to go take a shower and wind up sobbing over the sink, choking and retching.

You are a fucking mess. You try and remember life before Dave. Well, that was life with Rose. You try to remember life before Rose and that gets legitimately blurry.

Your name is John Egbert and, for the sake of yourself and everyone that used to be close to you, you are learning how to be alone.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yay and stuff.

Your name is Dave Strider and you have mail, which makes you want to wag your tail and the like. There’s a single non-junk letter and it stares up at you from the table. You tug out your phone to check for some message from John, and there isn’t one, just like every other day for the past two months.

You pick up the envelope with shaking hands, positively terrified at what news it could hold. You tear it open and tug the thick leaflet of paper loose. The Conservatory at Allensville letterhead stares up at you, with a cheery first line full of exclamation points. 

_We are delighted to inform you that you have been accepted for the fall semester at The Conservatory at Allensville!_

Are you breathing? You’re not sure you’re breathing. You press trembling fingers to your lips and there’s a faint brush of moving air. You are breathing. Oh god oh god. Sweet Jesus.

Hell fucking yes!

After a victory-dance-lengthed period of time, in which you absolutely did not do any variety of celebratory gyration and/or thrusting, you send your bro, lady-bud, and Chaka Kanaya the happiest text you’ve shot in a decent while. You collect your thoughts and realize that Rez and Ed might need some sort of heads up, as well. Effectively, the rest of your day is consumed with texting almost everyone you can think of.

Almost.

And, as usual, when you got to The Chuckly Pug to play your usual Thursday show, that other person you can think of- the one you always think of- isn’t there. 

And maybe it cuts your buzz a little. 

And maybe it continues cutting your buzz for a few months, but you’re getting used to that hole in your life.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We return to The Chuckly Pug.
> 
> Challenge: Find a better name for a dive bar.

Your name is John Egbert and you’re staring at yourself in the mirror. Your finals are over and done with and good god, you need to do something nice for yourself. It’s been almost five months since you’ve had a night out like the one you’re getting ready for. Actually, it’s been longer, if “like this” means without Rose. You look at your closet and contemplate wearing one of Dave’s shirts, but you’re pretty sure that would beyond tip the creepy scales. You tug your shirt off and frown at the mirror. The line of black scruff laughs at your pale stomach. You frown and scratch at it, still pondering what you should be wearing. This didn’t used to be difficult.

A catalog of shirts Dave had said he’d liked flies through your mind, but you’re really not sure if you should wear any of those. You settle on something blue. The sleeves are an odd length and it’s got a v-neck and now that you think about it, you aren’t entirely sure it wasn’t Dave’s, but you’ve seen the clock and you’re pretty sure you’re going to be late, so fuck it.

You feel kind of weird, running to a bar, but everyone else can just deal with it. They can assume you’ve had a bad day. They’d be right. You’ve had a bad five months. You stop by Kanaya for a beer and an encouraging smile, before taking a seat at your old table. The strong guy is setting up still, thankfully. The waitress comes by and takes away your usual burger order. The anxiety wrenching your gut eases a bit. Perhaps this won’t be an ordeal after all.

Dave, Rez, and Ed take the stage. When Dave perches on his stool, he looks across the audience. His eyes dart almost immediately to where you sit and you think he may have blanched a bit. Your stomach flips and you turn your face to your beer. There’s a good deal of feelings tumbling through you at the idea that Dave still looks for you, even after five months. There’s some light applause, covering the sound of their brief tuning check.

“Thanks guys. We’re still Thick Frames, just like we were last week.” Again, you could be wrong, but you thought there may have been a tremble to Dave’s voice as he droned the introduction. You hazard another peek at him and he seems over it. He shoves a hand through his bangs and you feel your heart flutter. Holy shit, you missed this. You might be bad for him, but dear Christ was he good for you.

He plunks along his little chum-be-dahs on his guitar and you sigh. You watch his sure, strong fingers slap strings into place and you can almost feel their ghosts on your skin. The lyrics pull themselves from him carefully, unwilling to leave such a tender home. This close to the speaker, you can almost pretend he’s singing them in your ear like he used to. You smirk as you realize just how unplatonic the two of you had ended up. 

You watch him on the stage and the dim, warm lights seem to glow around him. You begin to think maybe you’re drunk on the way the lights play in his hair, high on the gentle rasp at the edge of his voice. You down a solid gulp of your beer and you lean back to just drink him in. He’s pulling faces at Kanaya, biting his lip to random folks in the crowd. He looks like he’s scared to look at you and that’s enough to slump you over the burger you never noticed arrived.

You’re not sure how or when it happens, but at some point, you start feeling happy again. Somewhere in his longer-than-you-remember set, some part of you reconciles this as how to still have Dave in your life. 

It’s better than the wrench in your gut whenever you see his picture on your phone. It’s better than wrapping yourself hopelessly around his hoodie. It’s better than listening to his last voicemail and still choking when you hear the words “best bro.” 

As Thick Frames leaves the stage, you feel better than you have in a long time, which is to say not awful. This is better, you have decided, than nothing.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler: Best viewed alongside Chapter 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Oh. My. God. I have no clue what happened with the formatting, but I just looked at it and it was completely screwed backwards. Should be fixed now.

Your name is Dave Strider and tonight has been your last night for a while as the frontman of a shitty cover band. Smoke wafts around you and everyone else who has the misfortune of spending the last Thursday of the summer in The Chuckly Pug. You strum dimly at the guitar tilted across your thighs. Rez is behind you, tapping and tickling the snare and cymbals in a bluesy grooves she loves. Your criminally apathetic bassist plunks senselessly and can only barely be bothered to hum harmonies to his microphone. Next week, he takes your place and he can barely fucking wait. One of his exes is taking your guitar duties and you’re pretty okay with that. 

You’re not with them, though. You’re with the asshole with the burger and beer two tables back. You’re with that black shock of hair and the broken halo it puts around his head. You’re with beautiful eyes of ice behind thick, square glasses. You’re with the jerkass who’s been here every Thursday this summer.

And hasn’t spoken to you once.

_“I know I don’t know you…”_

There’s a bit of a bite to your voice as you stare him down. You want to make eye contact with him, to show him exactly what the fuck you mean. His eyes, however, are buried in his steak fries. You can’t see for shit in this godforsaken rat pit, but you imagine he’s at least got the decency to blush after all he’s done.

He fiddles a bit, then takes a swig of the beer he’s always got with him. It’s something local and pricey-looking and, if it’s from Kanaya, it’s in good taste, but that’s probably the only thing you think he’s doing right.

_“Oh, where you at now? I feel around…”_

Low chatter and clinking make up the bar’s noisy drone. The nice thing about getting out of here is knowing that maybe someone might start paying attention to you. You lick your lips and take a shaking breath before continuing. Burger Bastard makes the mistake of looking up. 

You’re almost positive there’s recognition in his eyes.

_Calm these engines, cool these jets. I ask you how hot can it get?_

_That always was the question, wasn't it? I put you first, second, ahead of everything else, but look how much that matters now._ So maybe you’re not over him. So what? He hasn’t spoken to you in months. You’re practicing again, writing again, almost sleeping peacefully again, but you still can’t get this derpy shit out of your head. It’s scary, though. You still want him there. 

_You also want him back in your arms, but you can’t always get what you want._

You scat and mosey your way through the break. At this point, it’s like walking with an old friend. It builds, though. There are sparks in your chest that you haven’t felt in a while and there’s a heat in the pit of your stomach. Rez pushes on the snare and you think that maybe it isn’t so bad that he’s at your last show. Your throat opens a bit more as you get ready to show off for the dork sitting just outside the shitty stage lights. 

_“I know- I don’t know you, but I want you- So-oh bah-yeah-yeah-ahd!”_

Your head jerks a bit along the runs and your eyes find themselves shut. You’re a breath’s width from the microphone, wishing for all the world that it was him instead. The Patron Saint of Apathy’s sticking with his stupid humming, rather than bothering to keep up with you. His low grubmles sound tangy-tart with the guitar and it’s not a bad way to end your last song. You bullshit and ad-lib some more through the outro and end your last song for a good few months at The Chuckly Pug rather satisfyingly. 

Ed reminds everyone that they are Thick Frames and as they clap. You start to put your guitar away, peeking up to confirm that the asshole is leaving, like he always does. You’re surprised to find him glued to his seat like a doofus. You refocus on your guitar, a strange nausea twisting your stomach in knots. You take your shit to the van outside the bar, everything blurring in your post-show high. Holy fucking antelopes in hats, you need a drink. 

And would you look at who the fuck has perched his ass at the bar, hailing Kanaya as soon as he sees you. 

Your name is Dave Strider and you’re kind of nervous to be falling out of your routine. 


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler: Best read side by side with Chapter 2.  
> I'm sure you're noticing a pattern here.

Your name is John Egbert and you can’t believe you’re doing this. You’re honestly going to buy Dave a drink and try to make good on five months of douchbagging and come out bros?

But maybe he’ll understand you’ll talk and, in some tipsy confusion, he’ll kiss you before he remembers you’re as good for him as a toxic wrecking ball. But you’ll still have been kissed by him and it’ll be awesome.

Christ, your fantasies still suck.

Wow, he’s taking a long time. Or maybe it just seems like a long time because your stomach is all tied in knots and full of butterflies. You thank the powers that be that it’s still just barely summer, so you can go home and drink yourself into oblivion when this all crashes and burns. Admittedly, this won’t be the first time or even the tenth you’ve drunk yourself into oblivion over Dave.

You check the door and he’s shuffling in. That’s really the only verb that comes to mind, since walking-like-a-puma-that’s-super-scary-and-gorgeous-but-has-also gotten-hurt-and-looks-at-you-with-fearful-eyes-even-though-it-could-still-maul-and-eat-you-ing isn’t really a verb. Your heart leaps to your throat as you hail Kanaya and ask for two of whatever Dave’s drinking these days. You feel like you’re going to die when she chuckles and says that it’s never just two. You’re comforted when she sets down a pair of radioactive-blue umbrella drinks. You sheepishly wave Dave down, feeling entirely like you’d rather turn and run.

He doesn’t say a word as he sidles up onto the bar stool next to yours.

“Dave,” you start, turning to him. He’s got his nose in his drink, refusing to look at you, “I- I’m sorry to bother you. I just… I really needed to see you again before the semester started.” You extend a hand to touch him somewhere, anywhere, as you desperately hope you’re not being creepy or overbearing.

He stares at your hand like he’s willing a knife through it. Well, shit.

“Bother me? You don’t talk to me for five months and then you finally say hi at my last show and what you’re apologizing for is bothering me?” He spits the words with stinging venom you’ve only barely ever heard from him. He takes a swig of the ridiculously luminescent drink, downing a sizable portion before slamming it to the bar. “Fuck, John, I… Where have you been?” He almost whispers his question. Your shoulders fall and something clamps in your chest. You just dare to touch your fingertips to his shoulder, almost to prove to yourself he’s real. He tenses, but doesn’t move from you. He stares into the blue of his drink.

“I’ve been keeping myself out of your life. I was never any good for you. You said yourself, all I ever did was tie you up in knots and you deserve someone who’s going to make you happy all the time.”

His head jerks to you and his jaw dangles a bit. He is the most beautiful portrait of disbelief. 

“That? That is what- You fucking idiot, that’s what you pulled out of our last argument? That I didn’t want to see you because you confused me? No, fuck you! Fuck you! I was pissed because you were leading me around on a short leash. I was yours, but you weren’t mine. I didn’t know what I could do with you. I wanted you so fucking bad and you just left me. That’s what fucking pissed me off. Are you really that fucking stupid, Egbert?”

“I dunno. I guess. I just… I guess I just don’t get what’s worth waiting around for with me, so I figured you wanted me out. I kept hurting you and I hate that. I can’t do that to you anymore.”

He exhales slowly through his nose. He turns his body and leans back, regarding you with furrowed brows like he’s not sure you’re real. 

“So, I tell you I love you and you leave? Did you never look back at that and see how that might mean that I actually do want you around?”

“I did, Dave. Of fucking course I did. I just thought it would be better like this and, when it stopped seeming better, I couldn’t face you. I couldn’t come up to you and ask to be back in your life when I fucked it up so much.”

“Huh. And why have you been coming to my shows?”

“It’s like having you in my life again without making myself be a part of yours.”

“So then why’d you stick around tonight?”

“Because I realized that coming to see you and then running out is basically the same thing I was doing before I fucked everything up even worse.”

“Oh, so now you start to get it? Is that how it is, just a final goodbye? Because if that’s so, you can just leave now. I would be just as happy not to see you in here with some bullshit pitying look on your idiot buck-toothed face.” He spits it all out, a quiver to his voice, nowhere near his usual measured tone. He’s facing you, but he’s bowed in at the middle, like he anticipates some sort of blow.

“Hey, who the hell said this was some kind of pity shit? This is me being a selfish asshole. I need you and I never stopped needing you. I just… can’t let you not know anymore.”

“I- shit, John, what? What do you-“

“I need you. I haven’t done anything creative in months, I barely laugh anymore. I cry like a kid and I can hardly even focus on my research anymore. I love you and I need you and I completely shat on any chance of being with you and I hate it.”

“Shit… Are you playing the piano still?”

“Not really. I’ll hammer out some scales or some shit every now and then, but every song reminds me of you and I just can’t do it, y’know?”

“Absolutely, yeah. Kind of like how I can’t even look at the files we recorded, I guess, only I do. I listen to that shit most days out of a week.”

You can’t stop the tears that well up, but there’s a smile working onto your face. You feel like laughing would be uncalled for, but it’s all just so pathetic. You chew your lips for a second before catching his fingers between yours. He makes a sheepish smirk at you and takes another sip of his drink. 

He asks you how your semester was, you ask how his compositions have been going. He asks what direction your research is going in and almost shits his pants when you tell him you got bumped up from being a gopher. You ask him if he’s gotten any more instruments and he says he’s gotten some more percussion pieces and you almost shit your pants because where the hell do they even fit? You both chatter on about all the things you’ve been missing, occasionally hiding in your drinks. You find yourselves straining to hear one another and Dave leans over to you, face suddenly quite earnest again.

He asks if he can talk to you in the alleyway because he’s got something important he wants you to know. Your heart jumps to your throat and you suddenly can’t speak. You settle for nodding and he tightens his grip on your hand, leading you to duck out the back. You kind of forget about telling him you shouldn’t be in his life or that you’re a toxic wrecking ball. 

Come to think of it, he’s not acting like either of those are true, and you’re beginning to think that it might be okay.

As long as Dave’s still with you, you’re pretty sure it’s going to be okay.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure you see the pattern I'm going with by now.   
> I absolutely adored writing this and the previous two chapters.   
> So. Much.
> 
> We're not quite done yet, so stick around!

Your name is Dave Strider and you’re leaning against a brick wall, tongue thick in your mouth.

And you can’t say you’re too pleased about it.

John’s tangled fingers in his hair, biting at his lip. You didn’t expect him to be this nervous. The part of you that writes songs could go on for hours about his hair. The part of you that actually gets laid, however, is staring at his lips. He peeks up at you, unsure, and it wrenches at your heartstrings. You take a deep breath, wondering how exactly to frame this. You scratch the back of your head and hike your shoulders.

“Thanks fer buyin me a drink,” you start awkwardly, realizing slowly that there’s no smooth or gradual way to build into big news to someone who’s been absent for the entire time it’s been a big deal. You sigh and begin again. “So, a few days after you left, I decided it was time I did something big, so I kind of hopped online and shit and, long story short, I’m going back to school this fall.”

He freezes.

“Shit fuck. D-Dave, I… I- fuck.” The hand in his hair works furiously, pushing his bangs from his face. You keep your eyes locked on him. He’s breaking down on you. Just like that.

“What.” It’s barely a question.

“I… Shit. I… Dave, I love you. That’s kind of what I came tonight to tell you and I guess you probably figured that out when I said I need you, but-“

“But what? John, what the hell?”

“Didn’t you just say you were going back to school?”

“John, I’m from fucking Houston. I moved here to GO to school. I just had to… not for a while.”

“Wait, so, what? Are you… are you going back to Houston-“

“Oh my fucking shit, John, I’m staying here. I’m going to be at the music school on your fucking campus!”

“So you’re not leaving me?”

You shut up. You’re kind of dumbfounded.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, fuck, that was really hypocritical. I just- I’ve been thinking for the past, like, twenty minutes that maybe I didn’t ruin everything forever and then…”

“School. Yeah. I get it.” You lift a hand to the back of his head, tilting his head so his scared-blue eyes meet yours.

“Dave, I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. I’m a major douchelord, but I love you and I need you and I don’t ever want you gone again.”

You step closer to him, invading his space. Your fingers lace in his hair.

“I’m staying right here, John.” You look up at him and those big sweet eyes blink. “I still love you and, tragically, you’re still my best friend. You wanna do this love you, need you thing? I’m game. I’ve missed you so much.”

He grins and the smile cracks you open a bit. Being in love never seemed so easy. He threads his fingers through the belt loops at the sides of your hips and kisses your nose and it feels like zero gravity. You make just the gentlest pull at his hair and settle your lips against his. The goofball smiles into you, his idiot grin almost breaking the kiss. He presses a bit harder, then wraps his arms around you. As he presses close, you think that maybe you can feel his heartbeat and it’s nausea-inducingly precious.

Being in love never seemed so easy.

“Dave, are we really just going to stand in the alley and kiss?” He slips his hand up your back and over your shoulder, down your arm, where closes over the hand in his hair. Something in your chest sings. He gives your hand a squeeze, running his thumb over the knuckles and smiling at you, nose bumping against yours.

“No, we’re going to go back to my apartment and kiss.”

Your name is Dave Strider and fuck all if you aren’t head over heels for Musicbuddy John.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the porn that is relevant and important to the plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be something quick, around 1500 words or something, but then I hit 200 kudos and got so damned excited, so here's an embarrassing 3500 words of smut. Oh god, I am terrible.

Your name is John Egbert and you’re in Dave Strider’s bedroom for the first time in a long while. You’re vaguely aware that he’s moved some things around and it’s perhaps a little more crowded than it used to be, but that’s not important. What is important is Dave taking his shirt off. Your feel yourself gawping and you’re not sure why. You asked him to do it.

Well, maybe demanded is a better word for it.

He stands an arm’s length from you and you can’t tell if you love drinking him in or if you hate the inches between you. He smirks for a moment, then it fades and he chews his lip a bit.

“Uh, John?”

“Hu-Whut?” Slick. Smooth.

“Aaaare you gonna get naked with me or am I just gonna stand here and model for art or some shit? Because, I mean, I know I’m fucking gorgeous, but it’s kinda lonely here.”

“O-oh. Yeah.” You cast your eyes sideways and chew your lip. He’s got all than toned, lean business going on and you’re pretty sure that, next to that, you’re a big pasty disappointment. The asshole fucking laughs at your nerves.

“If it’s gonna be such an ordeal, then I’ll fuckin help you.” He invades your space and presses his cheek to yours. Calloused fingers sneak up under your shirt and near-tickle their way up your stomach and chest until he’s got the soft cotton hitched at your armpits. “Arms up, babe.” You practically jump to obey and huh, that’s kind of new.

After he’s tugged your shirt over your head, he tilts his upper half back to get a good look at you. You wish he wouldn’t. His leaning presses his hips closer to yours. Okay, maybe you can handle it. He slides his shades down his nose and shoots you a wink. Consider this situation handled. He tugs them off the rest of the way and sets them on his bedside table. He braces his hands on your hips and tugs himself upright again, launching himself into a playful nip at the side of your neck. You make and embarrassing noise and the shit is laughing again. You frown, deciding it’s time to level the playing field. 

You smirk as you try to steady your breathing against the expert mouthing on your neck. You get a hand threaded into his hair. You feel breath hitch against your shoulder in anticipation. Your smirk splits into a grin as a truly inspiring opportunity presents itself. You hook your fingers, locking them in Dave’s gorgeous blonde strands. The hands at your hips flex. You move your hand in small, slow, gentle circles. He makes a sort of shivering whine as you massage his scalp. He nuzzles against your neck, making a sort of harrumph as his shoulders finally slump and relax. 

You make an abrupt, firm yank that has him yelping and scratching at the skin just above your jeans. As he arcs his pale, freckled neck backwards into your grip, you can feel your Prankster’s Gambit skyrocket. You place sweet, gentle kisses up the smooth skin, never loosening your grip.

“Aa-aah! Shit, John. Ya know, when I met you, I n-never had you pegged for the rough type.”

“I can quit if you don’t like it,” you purr to his neck.

“Mmmmnever said that. It’s awesome and if you quit it, I kill you.”

“Well, shit. Duly noted.” You tilt the fist in his hair and he twists his head into your hand with another yelp. His scrabbling fingers make short, if blind and clumsy, work of your belt. A shudder tears up your spine at the sound of it being tugged from your belt loops. You massage Dave’s scalp a bit, tilting his neck upright again. He makes a sort of deadly eye contact with you and nearly tears your fly down. Against the pull of your hand, he lunges for your lips, tongue hot against yours as he shoves his hand against your crotch. He slides his hand up through your fly, surely being scratched by the zipper teeth. He hooks his hands outside it and, with a clever flick of his thumb, the button is undone. The trick is equal parts fascinating and terrifying. 

He’s got the upper hand for the moment and, rather than try and steer him by the hair, you’re content to let him have it for the time being. You untangle your fingers and slide your hands down his cheeks, neck, chest, coming to fidget with his belt as you lick and nibble at his lip. To your grand and sweeping relief, it’s one of those modeled after seatbelts and, with the click of a button, it yields to your less-than-skilled hands. You take a step back from him, staying attached at the lips, as you try and get him to follow you. You give the free buckle of his belt a slow pull and he steps to follow you. He slows the kiss, lips moving at a dangerous-sweet pace against yours while he mirrors your molasses-slow trail to his bed. 

The backs of your knees hit the bed and he’s climbing into your lap as you pull the last inches of his belt free. With a flick of your wrist, it flies across the room and damn, do you feel cool. He runs his fingers up your cheeks into your hair, pulling from your eternity-long kiss to get another look at you. You move your hands to cover his and stick a kiss to his cheek.

“Cute,” he murmurs as he settles onto your thighs and leans his chest to meet yours. The two of you sigh into the contact and Dave makes an odd sort of contented noise as he begins to pepper your face with tiny pecks and kisses.

You smile at the moment of innocence and the soft look to his face until he rolls his hips against yours and you can’t stop the gasp that tears out of your lungs. He sets his forehead against yours and chuckles like a douchecanoe as you buck up against him. When he pries himself off of you, you can’t quite help the disappointed “buh…?” that sneaks out.

He stands, bent at the waist, over you, kissing at your jaw and tugging gently at your pants and boxers. You lift your ass obligingly as he pulls them down. He works at his own fly as he nips at your earlobe and, once it’s open, you yank his pants sharply down. He kicks them off behind himself and takes a moment to stand proud in his boxer-briefs before settling between your knees and-oh. Oh.

You gulp as he leans his head against the inside of your thigh and stares up at you. He slides his hand along your thigh and your breathing quickens. He slides a curious finger up the side of your dick and a shiver knocks you. He wraps a sure, calloused hand around you and makes a stroke in earnest and a groan rolls from you. He takes his hand back and swipes his tongue along his palm, demanding your eye contact and you’re back to not being able to handle this at all. He sets his newly slicked hand to you again and you’re pretty sure you’re just going to die. You tilt your head back and stare at the ceiling, struggling to keep your breath even until he pauses his movement and you peek back at him.

He’s staring straight at your face again and holds your eyes as he lowers his head, until he simply can’t keep up eye contact and plants a kiss on the very tip of your dick. Oh god. Oh oh god. He keeps a hand settled at your base and begins to place tender kisses and curious licks all over your length. Your posture breaks and you find yourself hunched over him, a hand settling gently on the back of his head. You feel his lips smirk against you and yeah, you basically have to be dead right now. 

“Jesus Christ, Egbert, are you a fucking virgin?” You open your mouth to say no, but he opens his too, and you decide his response is better. The wet heat swallows you and you’re becoming increasingly convinced that this is pretty much the best night ever. Something of a tremor starts in your thigh and he soothes it with his free hand as his head begins to bob. You’re a panting mess, whimpering as your fingers twist in his hair. You begin to stammer out something incoherent, when he abruptly pulls off of you with a pop that yanks the air from your lungs.

“Important ass intermission. I’mma grab condoms and lube real quick.”

“Uh, but-“

“No buts. Safe sex is sexy sex.”

“Well, I ,mean, I-“

“Whatever lame ass protest you’re putting up, I’m refuting. I get final say-so on entry requirements here, John.”

You flush. So that’s how this is working, then. 

“Okay, fair. Yeah, do what you gotta.” You do your damndest to swallow your embarrassment as he tells you to lay back and get comfy while he rummages through his nightstand. You have the thought that it’s awfully gentlemanly of him to let you top, since you haven’t really done this before. Then, it crosses your mind that it may actually be a matter of preference and you make a note to commence some experiments later, once alone. 

He climbs back onto the bed and kneels over you on all fours, dropping a condom and bottle of lube by your shoulder. You twist to look at them and you must look as startled and baffled as you feel because he lets out a shaky laugh and kisses your forehead. You look up at him and stare down his torso, getting admittedly entranced by the straining bulge in his boxer-briefs. Your eyes dart open as you suddenly feel like the least considerate brofriend ever. You reach up to him, wrapping one arm across his shoulders and snaking the other to slip beneath the tight cotton. 

Something in your stomach twists nicely at the flush that colors Dave’s cheeks as you stroke and caress his cock. He mumbles some noise of encouragement and you give him a few solid pumps. His back bows and he shifts his weight, lifting a hand to shove his underwear down. You move your hands to help him, until he has to roll to the side a moment to get them past his knees. He’s back over you in a moment, earnestness and curiosity in his face. 

“Real talk, John: I’m beyond down to schmang, but this takes a little bit of prep work. Is that something you’re comfortable helping with, or do you want me to take care of it?”

What? Wait, what?

Oh. Ohhhhhhh. That. 

“Uh, could you maybe show me, like, how you want me to do it first?”

“No prob.” He smirks to you, kissing your forehead before dropping to his elbows and working some lube onto his hand. You swallow heavily and he kisses your throat as he reaches back and begins to ready himself. He sighs and chews his lip as he works his fingers around, face beginning to color. You lick at his lips and he yields to an admittedly sloppy kiss. You massage at the small of his back and there’s an appreciative hum that vibrates his chest. You bite your lip and prop yourself up onto your elbows, reaching for lube to smear across your fingers. Hesitantly, you reach and grope an ass cheek with your newly slicked hand. He peeks at you through his bangs and smirks.

He moves his hand out of the way and you slip a cautious finger into him. You marvel at the warmth, partly to distract yourself from exactly what it is you’re doing. A rough sigh ghosts wetly over your collar bone and Dave drops his head to rest against your shoulder as you slide your finger in and out of him. 

“Mmm. ‘Nother one whenever you’re ready, John.” His voice is thick, drawl more present than usual. You press a second finger in and he groans over you. “Yeah. Yes. That, fuck.” Huh. Yeah, you’re definitely going to indulge in some experimentation when you get home. His cheeks are a heavy red that’s beginning to spread to his ears when he begs for another digit. “More, John. Please. Wanna get this show on the r-road.” You’re almost positive that you’re doing something wrong, but Dave keeps making these encouraging sounds against your neck. He groans as you curiously wiggle and stretch. For a moment, he makes a sharp hiss and you withdraw entirely. He shakes his head against you before saying, “Fuck it. Let’s just get on this.”

He sits up on his knees and grabs at the condom. You’re tempted to roll your eyes, but you’re coming to accept that Dave just might know the ins and outs of this better than you do. He tugs the wrapper open with his teeth and, okay yeah, you’re a bit more supportive of the idea now. He rolls it onto you with his thumb and forefinger before covering your dick in what part of you declares to be a really ridiculous amount of lube. Like he said, though. He decides entry requirements. When he finishes, he stares at your face, bold red eyes demanding your attention. You meet his eyes and give a curious blink.

“This still cool?”

“Uh, yeah? More like awesome, though.”

“Because if straight up gay sex- because that’s kind of what you’re dealing with here- is a bit much, I can turn around right now and reassert my title as the BJ King.”

“Dave, no. I want this. A lot.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We’re getting close to the term ‘love-making’ here, Dave.”

“Oh, neat. Then you gotta do somethin’ for me.”

“Literally, anything physically possible.”

“Beg for it.” Your mouth falls open and he smirks at you. He’s hovering bare inches from your dick and you just have to reach up and give your side a good hard pinch. He catches it and makes a sort of purring chuckle. 

“Dave, I want you so bad it hurts-“

“Mmhmm?”

“Shit, and you’re just crazy hot and I don’t even know how I got this lucky-“

“This is sweet, but it isn’t quite begging. Focus, buddy.”

“Shit, fuck. Dave, please please let me-“ you swallow hard, “fuck you. I want you to ride me until I can’t fucking see straight. Please.”

“Ooh, that works.” His mouth spreads in a wicked grin. 

He takes you in a hand and carefully guides you into him. He bites his lip and stares to the ceiling as he slowly slides down your length. He stops with a sharp hiss about two-thirds of the way down and braces his palm against your chest. 

“Fuuuuuuuckfuckfuck fuck fuck fuuuuck shit,” he grumbles, mouth twisted. You reach up frantically to soothe wherever you can reach. Back, legs, face, arms all get tender caresses, but he keeps you flat to the mattress with his hand, keeping you from smothering him in kisses. “Don’t even fucking think of moving. Shit.”

“Are you okay? Babe, gimme some words that aren’t fuck.”

“Shit. Dammit.”

You give him a concerned frown.

“Shut up. It’s been awhile.”

“Yeah, well it’s been anever for me, so you do what you need to. I have no fucking clue what’s going on.”

“Yeah yeah. Fuck, shit, John. You’re a pretty decent size here.”

You do your best not to smirk and glow with pride.

He sucks in a deep breath lets it out in a slow whistle, willing the tension from himself. He braces both hands against your ribs now and continues lowering himself onto you. When his ass comes to rest against your hips, he tilts his head back and rolls his shoulders. There’s a low rumble in his chest as he accommodates himself. You, for your part, are dizzy with sensation, hands curled tightly in the comforter underneath you. 

Struggling to keep your head, you try to focus on any detail that isn’t the explicit fact that your best friend is quite contentedly on your dick. You look at the flush that’s slowly been engulfing his face and looks to threaten his neck. You soak up the way his fingertips are massaging lightly at your ribcage. You’ve almost made it back to earth when you look back to his face and notice the all-too-pleased smirk on his face. Then, he lifts his hips again and all bets are off. 

He leaves a hand at your chest, but moves one hand to yours. He fumbles for your fingers and you squeeze his hand tight. He catches your eyes again and slams his hips down. You’re not sure which of you made that noise and it could well have been both of you. You bring his hand to your lips and desperately kiss his knuckles as he begins to build a slow pace. You grab at a fistful of Dave’s straining thigh and drag your lips across the back of his hand. There’s electricity down your spine at the gorgeous, slow friction around your dick. He buckles over you, hunched as he shifts his hand to your chest to support himself. You bite your lip and let go of his thigh, a better idea coming to you for your hand. 

You reach up and give a desperate pull to his hair. His eyebrows knit and he lets out a strangled half-howl, grinding down against you. You pull his head down to just inches from yours. You both pant to each other’s face, staring into clouded eyes. The hand at your chest moves to your side and you feel the buzzing sting of scratches. You arch off the bed a moment and shove Dave into a searing, biting kiss. He rocks against you and you buck up into him. His every breath turns to moans and you, yourself, can barely keep yourself quiet. 

“Fuck, John. Gettin’ close here. Help a bro out?” he breathes against your lips.

You loose your fingers from his hair and slide them down his face. He opens his mouth, likely to snark that that’s not what he had in mind when you slip your hand between the two of you to wrap around his dick. He makes a startled sort of “o-ohhh” and props himself into his elbows. You quicken your hips and do your best to have your hand match. 

“Fuuuck fuck fuck, John, fuck!” Dave builds to a shout and digs blunt nails into your side. You feel him spill over your hand and stomach and you aren’t far behind. He’s still for a moment, but for his heaving chest. You do your best to plant tired kisses with shaking lips wherever you can reach. 

It takes a few minutes before Dave’s collected himself and presses himself up against you. He gets off you and snags the condom, pulling a face as he ties it off and takes it to the trash. You sit up and frown. His legs still shake a bit and you just want him to lie his ass down and fucking cuddle. You may be functioning under the influence of rom-coms and mild intoxication, but you’re pretty fucking sure that that is what people who are in love do, post-coitus. He turns to look at you and sighs. 

“Don’t gimme that face. We’re gonna clean up a bit, then I pinky swear, we’ll get our made snugglins on. Unreal snuggles. Snuggles like you never seen. But trust me, you don’t want to wake up with that shit on you.” He points to your chest and you suddenly get it. You let him haul you to the bathroom and the two of you are ridiculous as you wipe at each other with wet washcloths. You decide that jelly-legged kisses are the best kind of kisses and have more than your fair share of breathless giggles, leaning against his sink. 

It’s basically the best thing ever when you finally find yourself back in his bed and he looks at you like he’s not sure where he goes. You pull him to you and settle his head on your chest. You hear him grumble, but he still slings an arm across your stomach and laces his legs with yours. You ask him to tell you about conservatory. As you lay on his pillow, you hear soft mumbles of hopes and dreams and excitement from just above your heart. Eventually, they fade to silence as Dave sneaks to sleep. You’re right behind him.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after rattles around in Dave's head.

Your name is Dave Strider and you have just woken up a little bit hungover and a lot tangled up in one John Egbert. The dull ache in your muscles confirms actual sex, as opposed to an alarmingly realistic and awkward wet dream. You can see your sunglasses on the night stand from your vantage point on John’s chest, so you take the moment to indulge in some morning-after cuddles. 

You fight the creeping ice in your gut that says that he won’t be too keen on them once he wakes up and realizes what he did last night. In a few minutes, you’ll brace yourself to be just another regret again. As soon as you get up, you’ll accept that there’s no way that could have been so easy and that, what’s more, you shouldn’t make anything easy for him. That said, you haven’t been just held in so long. There was a hole in your chest and you feel it fill itself as you trace tiny shapes on John’s sleep-warm skin. You curl your toes a bit and when they brush his ankle, it’s just too much. 

You grin like an idiot and turn your face to his chest. He smells a bit like sweat, a bit like deodorant, something like both your hand wash and detergent, and then also something entirely dear and precious and him. It’s the scent that you prayed would cling just a bit longer to the clothes he left behind. It’s awesome. You sigh and smirk a bit wider when his leg twitches violently in his sleep. 

You decide a bit of space would be good to get you started on coping, and your stomach makes a violent snarl, so you delicately untangle from your favorite person and begin sneaking around, getting almost dressed to make some breakfast. You yank on a pair of sweats from your hamper and pull your Conservatory hoodie on with an indulgent grin. You stare a long moment at your sunglasses, before deciding that they can just be bros and chill on top of your head. 

You do the quietest of rummagings through your kitchen, breaking out your usual eggs and bacon. You grease your frying pan and let the disappointment settle in a thick layer that coats your stomach. The crackling of the bacon in the pan muffles your sigh as sobriety-blackened reality settles heavy on your shoulders. You decide you’ll have to be the one to gather his clothes up once he’s awake, since he’ll likely be caught up in his own crisis. 

The bacon pile is alarmingly high when you decide to out a cap on it. You’re in the middle of recalling your Code White training from when you volunteered at the clinic, in case John takes last night even worse than you originally anticipated. You crack an egg into the skillet and fry it in the bacon grease. You rub at the stiffened muscle in the back of your neck. You try to flip the egg, just to say you can, but it stays firmly in place and you grimace. You’re pretty sure that’s not how unincubated chickens are supposed to work. 

You fidget and fuss with it, poking it with a spatula until you decide that, to hell with it, you’re having fucking scrambled eggs. You crack a few more eggs into the skillet, now firmly positive that, on top of a shitty morning, you’re going to have a shitty breakfast, too. You swear a few times at the half-chicken massacre in the pan before a soft voice makes you start like a guilty man.

“Mornin’ babe,” John calls quietly. You fucking melt. He pads over to you, bare but for a pair of your pajama pants and it’s pretty neat. He settles behind you, snaking arms around your waist and perching his chin on your shoulder. 

You aren’t sure who turned the gravity off, but bless them.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short, but diabetes-inducing.

Your name is John Egbert and you woke up in the most comfortable fucking bed this morning. You stretched out, rolled around in the sheets, basked in the lovely and familiar smell of it. You curled up in the warm spot next to you and smiled, the night before made a bit more real. You opened your eyes and, failing to see who you knew had made the warm spot, frowned. You put your glasses on, just in case, but even he isn’t that skinny. 

You sat up and stared around the room, looking for something to put on. Your eyes fell on a ridiculously huge-looking pair of pajama pants and you smiled. Then, the scent of bacon frying hit your nose and your mouth broke into a grin. You breathed into your hand and gave it a sniff. It was gross and you vowed to never do it again. However, you decided Dave could just suffer. Quietly as you could manage, you snuck out of his room and down the short hall to the kitchen. You saw him huddled over the skillet, swearing at some eggs and your insides softened. You felt warm color come to your cheeks and you just leaned against the wall, taking him in and smiling.

“Mornin’ babe,” you called to him softly. He startled, facing you with shocked, bare eyes. You saw the shades on perched atop his head and decided they looked cute there. That’s when you crossed the room to hug him from behind, chin perching on his shoulder. 

You stand there now, swaying slowly and smiling. He sighs and you plant a kiss where his neck and shoulder meet. You really like the idea of every morning being like this, except maybe having Dave still there when you open your eyes. He seems a little tense, but it all melts away when you whisper in his ear.

“Never leaving again. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for sticking with me through this long-ass project! I love you all, you're fantastic!


End file.
